the namesake poem for “we’ll beachcomb for their broken bones”

go:

fingers-crept-spider-like into the crevasse

of my palm. i couldn’t

(breathe) now, not when the lights were coming on,

glowing as dumb and warm

as sleeping eyes

shut tight. we never did touch.

’cause you were as blue as a madman

and she was shooting sparks

and i sitting sullen as a covered moon,

breathing in, breathed out

a tide like deepest night. maybe, come morn,

we’ll stumble out, go beach-comb

for our broken bones

until the damaged children between our temples will be

born again with fiery skin.