some poem

my smile is the deadest thing
borrowed from somewhere else
and ripped with insomnia I
sleep all day
a hollow
expression on my lips
if I touch my temple
with fingers like nettles
I can smell your
chest in hollowed
burrows
my hands ball into fists
beating my own face
for not seeing you
I can see the panic
when I shut my eyes
with my nails scraping at the skin
that dies between them
and falls like dust
hot and sweaty in my skull
the greyness stinks of that history
-only the barracks left
-and a blood-stained surgery
cement
some wooden planks
peeling toupe-faded paints
and Lincoln's pillow under glass
remember these tears in joy?
I learn to laugh
and I forget

how much there is to remember.