Poetry

Little did it matter because all the windows were closed-- we couldn't hear
Each other, words and heartbeats clash-- the doors were locked against the
Frying rain, the freshened air, the others.  Who cared and who believed: it
Came through so as to believe-- until the din of battle drowned away traces
Of memory, but the memory of the heart-- in or out: they carry the bearing
Of equals.  The world cannot be eluded-- is the sting of the tiniest unhealing
Cuts, bunched and countless-- it can be escaped or joined: surrender howls,
Mercy groans with wind-battered timbers-- ignorant of the heart beating on
New thickening scars weeping blood-- holding at bay the encroaching world.
It was the time to stand fast-- in weakness I seek the numbness of an ice cold
Manhattan and two cherries and-- and believe that death would pass me over--
Tears of supplication begging for mercy, that God would cleave-- again: what
Debris would be spread by its wake?  There inside, the worms could conceive
Little more than we can dwell with them and breathe-- the trumpet to her heart.