Queca

Across my forearm lover, my skin a chance number, I point to the others, my face a sweet mirror, an astonished wonder, that this could happen, I feel myself crumble, how the world slumbers, at such illicit silver, night winds sting like leather, whip the daily stumble, our days become longer, fighting over what’s gone, fire and distant thunder, the way we have to run, one unwashed sign above us, they make us walk under, some won't make sunset, scattered, broken.