Old, Wounded House (Got into Our Souls)

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,

somewhere.

 

It’s not that you broke me, but I do feel broken into.

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