Living

In fistful debris of memories
In wistful charm of winters in December
In words that spell themselves out wrong
In rust that has grown on songs
In bus rides through the snapshot of a city
In sites of mortal decay
And moral obsolescence
In through the out doors of brothels
Where the boxer conducts his tyranny
In pauses of saxophones
Under the surveillance of light bulb drones
In groans of mothers turning into fugitive whores
And their muffled moans in bedrooms
In half torn pages of bibles in a reverent home
In patient onslaught of self slaughter
In blanket tears between eulogy choirs
In hospices where limbo hangs by the spring rain
In breakthroughs by the tram sheds
In blurred photographs of years gone by
In outstretched guilt that envelopes enslaved love
In between painting horses for a living
In bravery of writing this poem
I recognize myself
I live