Ache, the ache of routine, took as torn,
and bristling to be observed: she salivates.
She whistles at her good good-fortune.
Below, beneath a moon’s swollen elbow,
canted just so, to frame the floor, a remedy
I air with song, from lips humid with poetry,
or trying hard to be.
A stone well as deep. She hyperventilates.
I toss it as far up as my words can carry, to
surface, but it rarely clears the hole. So, with dirty
finger, I repeat my echoes from long, long ago
from a well bare, save me and the froth
I collect for breath, and eyes that observe
such cave-ins in-progress.
The dirt of an afternoon. Much harder than you know.
Really. When stopped to ponder from the distance of
many, many years, it really forms a position. It really
gets sassy, literarily speaking: It bleeds. It, despite
the grime of old poems, the jaunty retrospect, still bleeds
fresh up to navels.
Below, beneath the bottomless well of my skin.
She remembers its echo.