a cloud of moths flutter
around the bare bulb
out back
as an evening breeze
carries the faintest scent
of cut grass
through an open bedroom
window cracked
against an august night.
they say it gets easier
when you’re older,
as if scars
no longer seep or bleed
like rust washed
down the drain,
only the pain still lingers
in places you don’t
wish to name,
like tracks that terminate
behind abandoned
red brick factories
with weeds and wildflowers
swallowing the line,
wooden ties
split, rotted and cracked
from years of neglect
or abuse.
