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The past has passed on. Our old people locked up in nursing homes. Laid flat and turned over from time to time, dying evenly on all sides, On lumplump mattresses soaked bedsores stained oozes.

Alurk in the dark, their eyes are cannonballs in a battlefield deserted. When they roll in the breeze, you know there are animals inside these fleshcages.

Ill-fitting skins. So much skin it could be stretched and wrapped around the body twice. So many things you can hide in the folds of your skin. A disposal bag you weave so we don’t have to bring any when we come

With a foreceps and tray, scraping for hair and skin, for signs of violence under your fingernails. We have to come anyway to collect your souvenirs. To slide the ring off your finger and by the way see the skindoodles, the buzzing traffic of lines on your palm. At the lifeline no one is supposed to read, scratched over

The child is told to run to the end of the field, touch the post and run back. That precise moment when the hand touches the post and the head turns before the body. That’s when the young get up and go old. When the circle stops going around and starts to come around.

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