I would never say
forever is for ever
if it was not for the millions
of grains of sand.
They beg to tell of easier times.
Lost for seasons,
bones are unearthed in gardens,
they tell of unspeakable
yet undeniable secrets,
many of which are told behind gloved hands.
There must be a doorway to point
myself toward True North,
I need direction,
turning and turning,
lost in a center of turmoil, chaos
and poems with posters from buses:
my bleeding has stopped.
Has your own kind of bleeding stopped?
Pause, reminisce, die that special death, conclude.