forward

I got to the end of the poem,
and I smiled, stood in my tracks
not knowing what he meant exactly,
but that he forgave her, or gave to her
some magnificent metaphor,
comprising the universe,
and how he’d shout but without her,
emptied of his lies,
that maybe she would come again to his rescue.

if we spoke up the past again would it reflect
the cause of a future,
or would we just be starting all over—
its not that I’ve not sufficed
nor do I have no room for more,
rather its as subtle an arm wrapped,
or the grace of a trace along the back;
and how you wish you can check everything,
but breathe in and take a step.

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