we are so far from those honey-
suckle-twisted
fences, looking in
on the cemetery of our
youth, without a trace
of fear
for our mortality, but
instead, for the boogie
man, for losing the way
home, for abandonment.

these days, we wear purpose-
pinned
fear, preparing
for that eclipsed
moment, when there is
no hope
of rescue,
and frailty
is a tarantula
of glances
.
20100523:2208
y