we wound each other and come from it
our children fear the smoke
that all but transpired well-wishers,
ones they wont to nurse, ones they
muse all over, ones too coppery for
us to exist as —
we wound each other and come from it
(because toys were adults to them;
they don't know, don't understand,
don't like) like wounds of a centenarian
— it came from it: the valiants of
disagreement and hurt and ego, but
most of all, obsession to righteousness;
we wound each other and come from it
the parents, our parents, lectured of
love and called us their darling with
cigar on their mouths, smothered in
sins, too stoned to wake up, too convinced
that the torment is a stubborn child
