Yet

1 May 2017

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.

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