~ “…this is all” ~

Quickly light scars over the break

his arms made in the space between her chest and a carving

chisel. Not often are the two so close, only by his hands’

kinship with her body. All of this (consider “this” – a slapped

word,

ringing with ill-lit goodbyes, coincidental

lingering gaze) tenderness, pain which grows accustomed,

is what

she wears, what she sells to other people’s eyes, to keep

walking. Every night

back into childhood, new colors, brighter

instead of faded. He asks her how

these picture worlds connect – truth is

by tunnel, by trip and fall: lines drawn under the skin of their

embraces, cutting

into small enough pieces, she can hold all at once in her hand

without letting go of his – spiral shavings

floated on water full of dahlias oceaning

from rain she never saw pour

off the woodshed roof, long way

she never leapt

into his arms where it is genuine and evening