burst in between the bottom of
the door and the floor
cracks, space and memory
but not as lists,
and as something more than
squares on grids,
carved into the land like
six million reclaimed
childhoods, a thought and a sound
and a green light and an alley below
fall on me fall on me
and constant, hum
that youthful sound of air
getting crazed for autumn.
i am not old and i am not young
and there’s nothing i can do and
there’s so much to do
and almost nothing means anything
but what does