Lately I’ve been listening to Nirvana,
just a half-step up from Cowboy Junkies
in the depression stakes. No Timmins kid
ever offed himself, I don’t think.
The irony of teenagers is sarcasm,
their instruments roughly calibrated
to self-deprecation, unlike adults.
They gallop across the universe, grabbing comets
that burn their hot little hands. Stigmata rules
say the wound must go through.
The pain is instructive,
with or without salvation.