Beauty is a wound, love its ache
—we suffer from such longing.
place or thing: the impress of the impossible
upon the heart, which pulses just below the skin
and behind the eyes and under the tongue and in
all the tunnels to the mind, where our fears
and faith live.
masters or friends: demonic images in the air
whispering one word a thousand ways until we see
through it and them and know what was always waiting
in the darkest hallows of our-selves where
we think we live.
of the earth can heal us: only violence.
Only legions of limitation dressed in the habits
of an ordinary world. A play of unending banality
and terror and sales and stops. A story stealing
any sense of loss.
Our wound is beauty, we ache from its love
—we long for such suffering.