our
life is through.
teetering in nursing homes, in hospice,
we balance the guarded
precipice of youth, of regrowth.
we
guard the ropes,
and puppeteers, the indecisiveness
killing our first desires,
sedating our oldest friendship.
we
are the con-
men, the convulse of old cavities, the
hand ran over bleeding gums,
but the possum is still dead on the road
and we are still murderers.
