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lightening. no.

more like sudden

monsoon: overwhelming.

out-doing. endless.


dark. torrential


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

to hide—

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

might                           find

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




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