From the towns we knew and presume still stand
stand still Ewcia, dear, and one day
forget to mention them.
Pasts presently will transfigure
through, due to, for re-evaluations…
a spiteful Vistulan yarn left a pixilated trail
across skin ripping Deptford cement,
as personal as wilderness.
They incur no value at the bottom of —
Christmas from the east with mandarins beet root soup tempted broken bottles;
Ewcia rose up for a week or two,
couldn’t pronounce her name properly.
We find it hard to believe she’d return,
How so much skin gave to anatomically prove —
The pasts transfigure, dear
they valuate nothing
— best left to common knowledge
And given rhythm in the empty gut