village
boys follow close on their bikes,|
know nothing better than dust's restlessspinning.
the sun heats my face,but burns out by mid-afternoon.
we grow second and third sets of wisdomteeth.
any sound falls quickly and absorbs into
fresh pavement, disappears like water.

each fruit i open has already been drained,
everything ive ever written has been  about waiting.
i gain a unique kind of filth.
late december and tiny cockroaches still  circle my feet,
come in through the drain  and brush their little stomachs with the  bristles of my toothbrush.
all ive learned from being gone becomes  meaningless as soon as the plane lands.

he buzzes vacant,
trusts my cooking like i  never would,  
eats too quickly while snails climb the window frame.