you will like, love or hate this poem it will be written, needs writing, asks no permission from the author, gives no quarter, it is the whether of either or, for ‘tis not in our hands, not in this domain, for it’s ripped from my elemental being, like it or not, was took and taken!
Even I, am without choice, this one of singular changing moments in our lives,
when she speaks and:
the happenstance dominates, the errant word,
bullet kills, grimace or grin is its very own revel-nation,
when where truth smashes,
drips and a froze-moment is preserved without
artifice, mnemonic or devise, for it is both perma-
burnt and burnished with ochres, browning yellows,
when you spoke plainly words that sundered irretrievably,