Trust is such a fragile commodity.
We tear it down and sit in the shadows
of accumulated wreckage–thinking,
while the moon flickers like a candle
at one side of our face. And with a plea
for what? What we'll rebuild? We overthrow
our worry in a landscape mimicking
the "beginning," devoid of the chestful

of rebar sticking up like twisted nerve
endings and full of whispers after the rough
surface is scraped (when there's nothing left
but the earth's house of bodies biting dust
into our heels and supporting our useless
fences which never keeps us from being disturbed.