I dream of thin veined children
pulsing through cartiledge corridors.
They want water and cigarettes,
crush coke cans with their feet.
Some of them have faces of people I have known,
some of them are auditioning for bit parts in my future.
Some of them have no face
but are blank as a knee cap cracked by a faucet.
All this I can stand,
but O, to hear their voices,
the reverb, the clamour
the terrible meat of them.
