you lost your wrists
to hosts, twisting
rivers idly speaking
the thoughts you sought
to leave behind.


it doesn’t cut – the port
in the picture, leaning
on a shirt under the bed,
or the ticket stubs
on the walls (old dates,)
the photos of gifts
from better people.

more than one face
brought that old grief,
the past can’t bleed
unless it’s all you know.