between us, our senses, our skin
and the world we were living in,
the white smear erasure of our minds made us birds in an atmosphere of anvils.
Survival left rippling cracks in the plate glass
of our temporal back-beat;
People mistook us for Dada tickets but we were
just a wedge in a bar of a song in our heads
To be remembered each Fourth Of July
as we concuss, diffuse, and catch each other's eye
even in gravity boots,
even in the dark.
for Kenia's guest post at Real Toads. I chose the following song: