A Boy From the North Side

lies dead in his living room.

not faceless, but also

more lost
than an archaic map, than
when he thought he could grow
tunnels in one breath, than
when the momentum
was so terrifying
it drew upon itself
its own falling

like a well, he’s split
himself between.

he didn’t know
the air would taste of thumbtacks,
that a life cannot subsist
on potential, that

shivers of me are locked
in him

as he remains
this spinning magnet of us,
barbed wire jutting in & out
between the tight space
we once perceived
as worth holding

& nobody knows how
to draw us out.


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