Things don’t change

every day is a measure, the perfect meter
of heartbeat and footstep
until the dimensions of the plot are marked
sinew, bone, blood, and life
boxed and planted.

every mind is the map of memory and dream
the broken compass to stale meals on plastic trays
napkins, forks, spoons and knives
used, soaped, rinsed and forgotten

every child is the blind glance
from fate to faith and back
prayer, laughter, tears and song
sung, said, silent and lost

every love is the wrinkled progression
along the rocky path to nothing
kiss, touch, stroke and fuck
howled, hoped, hurt and dead.