A plunge of blood

tells the time of your stomach.

 

Remembering and realizing, like a magnet

you skirt the force,

circling around

to the attractive end,

but not forgetting

that other edge, which you

do not need to see

to see:

 

the one glinted

with what you know

you have done.

 

You wonder if things

—everything—

can or will break

on such absolute serration.

That exergue

makes its bald whistle

as if the burning streaks it leaves behind

have afterthoughts.

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