How much ivory
Can sweep tears to the space
Beneath a worn rug?
You hold your eyes
Upright, upon the glass
Of a new-fallen sky,
While I bleed around
The failures of my flesh
For my pain cannot matter.

Hold your eyes
Upon what you know best,
To the honesty of your reflection,
For you are never bewildered,
Never shocked
By the lightning that screams
Down to your lungs.

My pain cannot matter
In the heated empire
I hold on the head of egotism.
What fragility,
Becoming fragments for me
To be
Cut to disproportion.

Field me the space
To never doubt
Another word from your own mouth,
For the weight has no substance.
Has it ever occurred?
Have I never noticed you
In the hours grace had missed you?

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