When two dynamite sticks are lain
By one another
And lit in such a way
That their explosions are concurrent,
Both red little sticks vanish, totally.
They belong to the air that sucked their debris.
We have kicked and banged
Into this bleached room
Where hole-less, scuff-less, innocent,
The walls seemed high enough
To be infinite.
But it has a ceiling.
Lying on our backs we can almost see it.
This isn’t happiness
Or some second chance.
This is a tomb for containing
All the toxic debris
That, mid-explosion, will fly out of our bodies.
This stale air is all we will get.
