Grasp For It

this parade follows

the trenches we've dug,

curving along

hangnail-map scratches,

cutting through bodies

as they rise

like litter from wombs,

we learned to be deaf

because the

thread-count of negativity

scratches dreams and

oblivion feels like silk.

our holy water

can cleanse our bellies

until we forget,

but morning comes and

permanence sets in.

so we run to trees, to the water,

searching for silence

so we can hear again.