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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