Where are all our recent ghosts now? an ancient desire on a stone cooked fine with mercy and loneliness beating out a lover's name on a skin of life, a torn winner glad of his victory remembering only today. How impossible it is to be reminded of our genius water while pissing in this river we cross on dark horses we are close to home how can we contain all this air? our names become promises of noisy failure- our flag is fallen and easily mistaken for yesterday. We wish we had left something more.