this battered pitch

this is your burning realism

here on this battered pitch

with wavering goals, with stuck trucks

with worms under skin

here is where boys become men

and men do what men do

and die

this is where you can’t forget

screams happen for many reasons

there is dancing and falling on the ground

in ecstasy

there is giving up to being held down

while it is cut out

and children are childlike

and die

and dying is your realism

drying up like wheat

spread out in the sun

packed up in beds

hands are holding

tracing peace we are told

truth from some angles

in language not grasped

at the border a cinder wall

you hide your neck

stick to noonday shade

when there is time

what is real radiates from your skin like heat