True remains;
Scattered hens feed crunching beneath my feet;
Wispish clouds strung like frayed string across a bland and flat sky;
Red dirt and the burnt landscape of an afternoon in nowhere.
I see the girl in the corner,
She is hunched like an animal over food,
The wire mesh fence is barren behind her,
The colour of her skin so thin it would not dilute paint,
And my stomach small because of the whole scene.
The true remains;
Bones in the language of common conversation buried in loose soil,
Now spilling up into syllables as long and lonely
As cemeteries carved into the corners of cities once mighty,
Now rotten through.
She speaks to me with her eyes;
Taps out morse code in spasmodic trembles on the air between us,
Cracked with tension as it were.
I drop my pants and see recognition;
She is revulsed by me, but it doesn't stop the end from coming.
The truth remains.