410

Patton, Paul, Maria, Brian

because I heard my own voice
in yours, I thought my shores had extended
and now I think
of great colorless monuments
buried underneath my sand

and now
and now
I think of grey wood
washed up and used by the inhabitants
of my pink skin
building towers to signal out
to burn down and relish the smell
of acrid smoke or cinder
in the throat

I don’t waste or follow
and I don’t understand numbers
that middle
tell my age to strangers

all I want is a drink
not heat or gold
not heat or gold