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Blue Flute

It was Perfectly True

He deserved better.
She deserved less.
Together, they almost made a complete thought.
You know, the one on the tip of your tongue,
the one hiding in corners
of your mind like an assassin unhurried,
carefully polishing his weapons,
waiting for the moment
you’ll expose the delicate
white trillium of your own throat
for that specific cut
which should have drained you
years ago.

Of Bones

I watch you enter your face
as you wake.

The corners, like any darkened room,
light up as night retreats to whatever dreams

kept you sleeping until now.
You haven’t opened your eyes,

but I can tell you know I’m standing here
like bad sculpture observing you as you resurrect

yesterday’s annoyances as if you were a second-hand
messiah stuck with laboring over suicides

who all probably should be left in peace.
But it is your nature, your avocation,

to work the light, force it on them
like unwelcome faith then stand back

to let them rediscover the soft surprise
of their bodies, the discipline of bones

which holds us to this world
like a fist clenching, unclenching.