there must be a hole
for needing to be better
& hating yourself
through which
it leaves

we park somewhere
a trap
of green gasses
idling, a sun roof

the large holes
carried
in front of our bodies
like stealing art

the certain parts
of air that stick
before
being sent back

the false ones
the hopeful ones
the oxygen
the nitrogen

the courageous others
tagging along
swept up in it

we give each other
something good a little less
each time
here in the same place

but it’s still
some good

we finger the holes
in our hoodies
& in the atmosphere

we crack a window

we finger our mouths
through which words
emerge from
primordial
soupy throats

but where
before that? i struggle
sometimes

perspective… or
who was there
when it happened

a police officer?
a father?
a friend
who learns the world
by looking at you
looking at them