XLV.

how strange it is to exist in space.
you say to me,
on this road that we walk,
feel the earth beneath.

i would like a camera.

i am scared.
it is the age of poetry once again.

summer comes too slowly —
the sun warms my shoulders,
tears soak my skin,
and i am slow in moving.
words are slow in coming.
i am scared.

a tab beneath my tongue and a foreign taste.
i am slowed. down.
who am i?
simple words. some kind of clumsy poetry.
and beneath the words is black terror.

i am scared.
and what do i think about?
the boy, i suppose.