they pulled my hair at charm school.

they stole my guestbook during rolecall.

the things we lean towards. + 2002-04-04 = 12:02 p.m.

+

Spring. Smell: inside of bookcases. Air: chilled. Downtown: man in tan coat. Cane & other hand clutches heavy metal lunch box. His oversized oxfords and white shocks remind me of my Uncle Ritchie. Cropped hair and accentuated cheekbones. Always alone. Further down street and there is a quiet boy with blue jacket. Noisy friends push and pull at one another. He watches with his lips twitching up into a smile when funny things are said. There is a paragraph cut from a magazine taped to his cheek. I want to stop at intersection and lean in to read it.

Wanting certain things back: your heart all over the place. In your ears and down your spine, pulse. Stretch legs out and remember the ceremony of sprinting - blocks and how long it took one to learn them. The kneeling. Place chin near your knees and wait for the snap of the gun. The crowd : a blur. Swallow and it's in your lungs. Lines to stay between. I'll never do that again

soundtrack: sirens hinting at the tragic. telephone wires. birds. transient as we curse things

or,

watch the afternoon take pins out of the piece you tried to sew together.

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ghosts!