I have known too many, too many with pain and the inability to bear it, a screeching into the black night, a tearing out of heart.
He took it.
Then the glass sculpture began to be made
exquisite arches of that clear, cold material
smoothed and treasured for its beauty
but without a pulse.
Ha! She laughs. Throws her head back so her throat fills with the rage of all that she ridicules. This is her way to strum the nightmares, take the images and reduce them.
There are too many, too many who ache, who look with exhausted eyes, go through those everyday nothings, those daily pretends. How many people does it take to make something real?
Don't write to me now. Don't come to the door now. Don't say my name. I lost my name.
Cut. Cut. Cut.
In the night she dissolves
and the waters of her birth reclaim her
their wild marines showing the expanse of life
as this is the wound of my generation
my hands are showing a new way