We return to childish homes Stealing pieces of ourselves Blocks where Almost nothing left Fits Except the criss-cross shadows The iron in that deep part of your nose Spit on your thumb and rub Indelible welts From the formica table’s edge Where cigarettes burned down Left from fingers, hard as yellow A slight tremor in the ribs When passing cattle trucks Slowing, brake, the hard, pneumatic wheeze and shriek Jolting square, starvation eyes The jigsaw door, half-smiling Clouds of puffing smoke From the stacks above the abattoir
