Poetry

Is it a week of silty measure growing out of evening sprinkled with crumbs
To gather, a round week pulsing against itself, the thrall of the changing light
Every day renewed, an earlier glow fading darkness sooner until new Monday?
Who could tell about words rupturing flesh, splintering bones near to where
They were uttered-- each one, from starting to exhale and from before then, before
The space to you began remolding, before the teased potential, before the new
World was shat again-- leaving behind cripples and madmen drawn to the well
Unknowing their thirst?  What can we sift from the week's days, from the dust
Of scorched flesh whispering challenges, defying ego and misunderstanding
Inceptions of breaths left as words buried in the waking and hoping to forget?
Who forgets conveniently and remembers reluctantly from the other side when
They come with more words, these intended to soothe to clear away the fever?
Another week awaits without the truth to be made clear from whom one loves,
Dares closed eyes to turn toward the sun, to rinse days with languishing nights.