Straight
up the down-side
of the woman in
the back
the shame of
soul much
simpler than the
tart, touched by
depth and the
death of her alone.
Pain, rested,
going down
the stairs.
Destroy the
sadistic fake,
the destiny
that began
the harm in you.
Pushing further
into it, the sideways
bow of the picking
wind. The tremor,
the grammar of
opinion.
Don’t wait
for the recollect
to realize the
sound, broken
into and left for
the heart of it all.
Inside her, at that
moment, seems so
long ago.
