This is heartbreak
I’ve squandered this vow mindlessly scratching
a sterile sore. The portents were plain,
nothing would come of it.
Still I dream. Last night, seven dead mice
strewn across my coverlet, harking back
to an arresting image—Bodily Harm—
rat emerging from vagina. I do not
make these things up, I’m too weary.
There is not enough salve
on the continent to swathe this busted body,
nor breath to resuscitate this heartbreak.
You take my breath away. Your poems are sometimes like my dreams/nightmares.
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