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lightening. no.


more like sudden


monsoon: overwhelming.


out-doing. endless.


 


dark. torrential


misunderstandings.


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


reaped


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


think,


is all and only


ugly and none


worth


loving.


 


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


sadness.

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