O, blood stained boxers and,
shirt pulled taut against the wind.
A baskillisk grinning ear to ear
in every mirror.

Stuffy pollen nose-
the sullen boy sitting in the river,
water lapping at his skin,
Fish mistaking his stillness for death.

His body will drag limp against the 
parched fields and its days like
this where he's  more phantom than numan.

O, haunter of the locker rooms,
of the church pews and the police station,
begging on his knees for salvation.

Not to be like this,
nor belong to this,
nor to be at all.