At night, you forget everything:
the searing of hand and wrist.
At the back, the capturing goes further
into reason and rationale.
He is not open to your plenty, your footfalls and despairs.
His mistake of what is infinite is a means to an end;
a grave display of loss.
Call it: a skewering of a winged contempt.
Dolores, what is taking flight here?
Both of our worlds are a vivid falling.
You, Dolores, who are so painfully aware,
are but a flaw.
(but who wants to be flawless?)
Your knowing tethers your world to ours.
That grave risk is a secret pride.
It suggests you are extraordinary.
He turns you on and off and on. He tells you, you are not so,
but you are; you are; you know you are.
Your knowing is but a fragment of truth.
[Photo credit: Jen Fitzgerald]