she is beautiful and so I don’t believe that she
has suffered. now old memories chase me in sudden
smacking throat-openers, like red oranges
on a table, in a blue bowl — as I am
between ruins. like an old woman, I pick them
apart, blood stains under my tongue.
now, writing, nothing comes to me
to be described: no misery offers itself up
so willingly; I could rip them up, I will
restrain for the night. things, once loosed,
will run demon havoc in your
newfound peace. the words are dry, dry —
suffering is foreign to me
I cannot touch that old wet part, it glistens
it slides away, it alludes.
poem: bad riddance
the last pavilion 