the amputation of tears has formed a fist, beating a rhythm on my skull; i create your gentle flesh, roar for your body's quick, perfect, thrumming convulsions, the repetition of hands. this live collapse where the tune of thunder is a cold estrangement of fate; our bones our own, jutting, feeble.

evidence for the courage of trivial things.

we convened at the funeral field where noon is dark. there is a sorrow where each us is a river of senses, where a disappearing epitaph is confessed, the mouth answering the byways of substance, the sombre question.

in the winds a voiceless widow watches; memory is shortened and buried like a sharp knife. the breeze will scratch the silent seashore, a harbour of grief in her veins.