The treeless-eyes of our wounded house
come violently down into the stomach-lining
of a foolish girl’s heart. We stop and stage
a reenactment—more or less what it means,
to be tragic and beautiful and ruined all in one scene.
The forging of steel in this wrist, where blades spark and
resist the pull and push of elevator-love. We try so hard
only to fail and waste more time on nothing but feigned lover’s quarrels.
The sweet pregnancy of this moment: you populate my dreams
with shadowy visitors—a population of dwindling unrest.
We just never understood how hard it is to keep oneself composed
when everything else has fallen in, maybe, or just left out for you,
It’s not that you broke me, but I do feel broken into.