It’s like the older we get, the more
We realize all the stuff we got away with.

I stay in the shadow of the bridge now
And stare up at the young,
Still walking the shining hot rails, proceeding.

Look, they tease the big iron wheel
As if it were nothing to be afraid of,
As if it were part of some placid farm equipment,
Planting desperate green among blooms of dust
From my stolen things uncovered, unburied

I will not tell them that they are looking at
The condensed colors of a stilled heart.

It is nothing new
I buried those things long ago
Someone was bound to find them.
But I always thought it would be you.