Untitled (about pain)

My grandfather holds his head in his hands. I watch him; he does this when he prays, but
now I think he is overwhelmed with fatigue.
He holds his head to wait, to let all awareness gush past like the wind
When he looks up he is exhausted
“hang in their” he replies sarcastically as we tell him to do so
“Make an Impression” he tells me “when you go to Austin”

Did I make an impression here
In green Pennsylvania fields?

I can’t express the hatred, regret,
Or even simple memories of four years spent
Like dimes at a nickel store
The abrasions are like my grandfather’s fractured ribs
Painful enough to breath with difficulty
Yet harmless enough to let me live another day,
Another week
Another year
I take a moment each day to lay my head in my hands
And let awareness rush by
Like a gust of wind.