But these things really happened and I don't know how to shut them out.

The rain falls on hillsborough
on the stone and cement.
The rain falls on fayetteville
over the awnings and the doorways.
The rain falls on wilmington
as you drag in more smoke
lost and romantic
waiting for the bars to open.

There is nowhere to go when
nowhere is home.
Cast out by former friends reformed
sometimes rightly so
sometimes not.
Gaunt from hunger,
needing for sleep,
mumbling about angels and
dreaming of sex.

There is no sense of gravity known to the falling
until the bottom comes into view.

Then in March
they'll collect your bones,
sending whatever is left of you

North.