by Julian X  /  poetry  /  24 Jul 2007
when she loved, she felt to me sweeter, kinder
than any I’d ever known. but when she fought,
any word existed solely to be twisted
and nothing mattered
but another tooth lodged into flesh.
there must come a point
when one’s capacity to see the buried good
surrenders, cuts one’s losses, and heads for the hills.
there are hysterics so wild
that one knows no words have meaning
except, and equally, meaningful and meaningless.
if such emotions underlie all comments
(and one knows they do, however indirectly),
nothing is safe. all ground feels
quixotic after the earthquake.
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