Forgive me. There are things beyond quantities, things
I feel in the flush of my face. A rhythm to my breath.
An arrest of senses traipsing here and there.
A ragbag of memories, superstitions
Behind lips and lids, other shutterings
And listen! — We are fragile with smaller things.
Pomegranates, plucked loose. Our seeds
Scattered with a tap. Existence, broody
Disrobed of its leathery skin,
We bleed through the impossible pulp to speak
Salvation: Brand new with tags.