Mr. Gentle person’s eye
raining quiet rain down the crests of fingers
and the tendrils called wrists
undulating through fixed corridors in which
every heavenly body collides.

Cry,
it’s a fine thing to cry, to die
and thus did every person’s gentle eye
flood through a Watergate that had carelessly
been left open.

She arrives to gaze upon her own body
she asks
“Is this really how you want it to end?”
so we turned to see her—
as she was, even before.

And we could
only stare.
We could
only stare.
And we could only—