Compressed beneath fine pieces of granite
lies an amputated childhood, once unhinged.
I grew up - while the airway of old dreams
became congested.
Yesterday I tried to paint a memory.
Which color do I choose?
The August sky-
The piano I kicked -
The curtains I awoke to -
The bruise on my knee.

Even with hands cupped tightly,
those grains of time keep
slipping.