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Untitled (5/20/06)

April 14, 2009

My loss is pervasive, but you hold,
silent.
Apples wither and I
hold further gasping as a witness
when you claim torment,
and I feel like glass could seal me
in this irreparable sleep.

Shearing an unwaking emotion,
like a taut string,
I’ve no means to recreate for you
what blinding pain has struck me, and
I don’t even have to begin
a circus of your ugly face
to know no figure of kindness
could match the depth of this ache.

You only force a dying stroke of blame
when you can ground
and shrivel
and sharpen.

I am moss forming
and I bring no ill will.

So I wrap my hands, gently,
and dust them with chalk,
Just to prepare me for the furor of your eyebrows
up in poised arches like cunning tigers-

and yet,
your sharp teeth always surprise me-

and I pretend I know none other than your gentleness.

And I hate myself for being less
than all the force you are against.

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