this darkness like a childhood blanket that was worn in places , those weeks when we couldnt get enough of it , every night the sticks cracking , swooping owls us make believe-faux scared then actually scared at his grave , and we knew we could tell the days and the weeks growing fainter , the grass creeping over fresh dirt that hardened , and new mind junk grew over the memories , they were less fresh , in decay , in decay , in decay .