The vitrification of tears
on a chance encounter,
a cygnet grey and adrift
falters underneath a veil of corruption.
I draw the bandage
until the underlying muscle turns blue.
What good is a heart that lessens
for fear of the inexplicable hereafter?
I am not bold or righteous.
An emergency frail as the fringe on fennel
I cater to my wounds, to my devices,
running myself ragged in circles.