I quenched my thirst with acid rain;
and the stain on the wall bears 
the ghost of my hand gloved 
with the fingerprints of a foreign man.

what do children know of guilt? you ask.
clasped hands behind young backs
tasteless palms stained with chocolate?
A pity that the senses don't condense
upon those grasping limbs. 
But- no. 

 there is a window perched upon my shoulder 
that lets time in just as it allows it out
carelessly abandoned leaflet of paper,
draft of smoke. 

I cannot see my own hands, my own hands, my own hands;

the truth- the athletic, listless muscle
twists painfully.