you’re a child because your cry runs under the classroom desks like a guttural spring.
a child, your cold is larger than your breath. seats crack as you rock.
and you don’t sleep for nights nights. you saw the hand, somebody didn’t extend it from their clothes.
you heard the words, somebody didn’t put them into a tree. and games and words are not
softness that resolves.
a child, you are finished. in all boiler rooms
you will be a child, ever more gray.
© translated by Jernej Županič