more like sudden
no me to sink in. never do I cross
your brain, except in circles of sharp
red paint, slashed diagonally for emphasis.
weight cracks over. down. split-through.
wind-shock splaying splintered pieces.
but I know: your heart is sore.
and you would like
or shrink—or dissipate—while the seat
of violent denial
reels in its hungry size, licking its chops for each sopping grave
in don’t remember, don’t discuss
for fear that you
a self not
worth seeing (and that seeing would
summon the years in unrelenting trails down your young and tender face; and
that marrow of recollection would become endless consumption—forgetting
that we have as much rite to our sorrow as to our joy). and self, you
is all and only
ugly and none
but I love you
and pray that the buried depths would be drawn up and pour
in beading droplets, up through the skins of each and all limbs. yes, I hope
that you keep you sacred
through the hot sick hold of
a striking heart’s sharp