From the faucet

A twisted flower might grow

like a mangled wrist.

Your mother tells you, the child must be washed.

Forced under, it tugs at me.

The darkness there was seeping

Pink.

A woman screams.

 

From the faucets

have submerged an entire city, not merely a city,

but masses of human beings,

throats unfurling with questions,

flickered with sores,

flicker and die.

Bones feel less heavy locked

in a kind of pharmaceutical sleep

in the chamber of a horse's ant-eaten skull

Full of teeth and ache--

It’s past being hurt.

 

My head is a grief prison--

fill the jar completely up with

dandruff shaken,

Grassy depression,

Incissent stratum of morality,

Which fizzes up in each of us--

Rising to my fingertips.

Because its body remains,

I'll recover my youth.

Be sure to call yourself infant:

A boy, New, Nameless,

his soul released from the faucets,

to love you back.