I won’t reason this over anymore. It is an unkind fruit.

This is how we say, without really knowing what we mean-
the pale impressions of a furtive heart.

-how everything blooms in this prism,
the fearful knowledge of nothing more,
the wilting hope
the changing glass

how soft everything seems now
and alone

my contrariness lies
as bodies in the sand.

The years leave me in misery
and I lose all definition.

I am still.
With boldness, I lose everything.