The self is uncontiguous, undone,

parceled out, then simmered to a sum:

a rivermix of round-run rocks and foam,

cattle piss that tinges a green stone.
One can’t believe in monsters, being one,

or else one’s self would cause one’s self to run.

More than forgiving trespass, God forgets.

We know this; it is written. Still—
the art of self-abridgment

is removal; our essence, the perusaled gift

that stays beyond the shards of what it shatters,

where only what still could’ve been still matters.