pink oceans

here he goes
the boy
into the fairground
spitting, kicking spinning
new words
little angry
fire-cracker words,
he’s trying them on
with squeaks
and bright fists
those words
the ones
that belong to others
with bigger hands
hands of dark
grease and hair
and thumbnails
moons setting
into their pink oceans
and all gone to hardness
now with the snarl of steel
and blooming fire
all forging
all holding
the usual panic
and promises
but mostly just holding
all the rage
he’s trying to copy
down there
by the teacups
spinning their blue handles
into the night
as he paces
and plans
the crack of each word
hitting skin
and the hiss
of every syllable
cutting deep.

3 thoughts on “pink oceans

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