Harm

O harm,

you say,

say what you are,

placed

before us, waylaid;

as we are,

a world full enough,

yet

you can’t find ample

enough

pieces of us

left

to love—

not yet

 

[you know who you are

but knowing nothing of me,

you know nothing at all]

 

O dropped glass,

on asphalt,

tread of scraped tire

in clever, drunk circles

with no room about

surface

of earth,

no room

yet

for us

to love—

not now

 

[no girl gives it all

no, not if she knew,

 

knew what was coming to her] and, O harm.

 

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