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The stubborn. The sore. Full with infection. The empty suitcase. Leaving her again. Drinking glasses. Foul with the stench. Of barren gardens. The seeds still under the dirt. Missing the sun.

I tried to save her. Knitted parachutes. Weak against the thrust of descent. I put the atom in her hand as she made a fist. The sad demeanor of little girls weighed down by too many men.

All the world like quiet raindrops. Falling on a distant glass. The storm is apparent, but I don't care.

A crossword of skin. Waiting on my letters. A cryptogram of gods fumbling with their crutches. Lying that they can reach me.

Crawling the same as I have.

Isn't that poetry?