your legs may want to forget the name of this place, forget
how you rolled into it and swallowed its rain. for
what place wants to vomit you out? what place burns into your skin
and says that you are an embodiment of things cracked and squashed?
this place does not know how to hold the peoples in it. it fills
mouths with flowers grown at the graveside. at the border your
name may become a gallery of run. run. run is not a verb.
run is a name for safety. a name for not dying. a name for holding sun
& moon. at the border your tongue may want to lose the taste of this place.
for what place doesn’t want to stay with the night and day. what place grows
bodies backward. grows fire and bombs. and words from its radios and televisions
are lists of found and unknown limbs and bones. this place knows corridors
plastered with red and coarse paintings. at the border you may want
everything wrong with this place as a memory burnt at the feet of amen.