Kid, they will write on your back,
scratch your name on the walls
with your own petrified eyelids.
They told me and they will tell you
to climb up and jump down.
Stares, vague and lifeless,
will be lined up like book backs
on the shelves of your memory.
Terrific dragons will turn to lawnmowers
and castles melt before the sun.
Push on, push on; the dreaded cry
will become a sharpened knife.
Remember your doorways, your shoe size,
your airs. Crouch low in the belly of dreams.
And always keep reaching.
Someday someone will see your hand.