When I reach your age
I will fall to pieces—
no more piggybacks
I will still feel the same way
lost as ever
Objectively I would think
you don't realize
the clinging fatalist inside me
pressing warm flesh to the warm flesh stepping into
and crossing the pool
Disconnected echoing squeals
of playing children beneath
cloud spotted blue
in quivering chlorine clearness dappled madness
drying at dusk then gone
Dolphins don't play with sea turtles
or even dogs
Even then I realized I am
anchored to nothing
Any uncertain, romantic notion, or clinging
had no reflection in you
a caretaker gliding through
When started information:
residing on Milnor Ave. in Syracuse, NY
during a brief return in 1990
aged 22 or 23
Writings By Erick Heins 