men stand deep in front of many things

with many angles to travel,

in hopes of designs so elated

like a sole

grated and driven in.

 

thrust into pavement

like an insular youngster

with bad knees

in forever summer days.

 

certain things belong to home, you know.

in youth, we were never alone

thoughts hadn’t happened yet

save for the mentoring salve

 

the realization

of life,

fragile like money.

 

we found out that

hearts are indeterminate,

with a longing so inimitably slick

like watermelon hands.

 

that most things are impossible

like auras in the distance

 

sex is temporarily delicious

like an escapist miasma

 

some things are all-telling,

like the word

“home”.