We melt, mostly. Our brows
ask for the name of what
will keep us still and huddled,
ask when we can look into the eye
of a drained bottle of Popov
or Banker's without flinching.
We should make our way out West
or North but our ankles deafen, our skin
works towards a new career
as book jackets.
What does it say to those who grew
up here when someone new
comes to die? We are scratched
photo albums, oak trees waiting to cleave.