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.
I
don't
want
this
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
Fate lines
