No, A Comet Too Late

After a poetry reading, 2015

 

A room of pulse,

held

 

As commas hold,

between feelings,

a subtle caul.

 

Just as…

 

A word exhales a room,

placed to a pulsar—(no,

a comet worried apart too late)

 

A printed scream—

(no—a worthy sieve for

all our broken hearts to leak).

 

*

 

“It sighs, my word—

oh my, it sighs—as

it begins to grow

dark, at night, my

word—oh God,

it will sigh.”

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