You rip off the bandage exposing the wound, the gap between birth and its correction. Let’s be the best we can be, even if saying so is naive and being so costs. Strange blood flows when you let it flow. We make use of it. Things said in lost hours turn into moments recalled by others. Gifts explode, small sparks turn to forest fire. Your wound will not heal. Let’s surrender lightly to this mystery.

Each minute travels           through our veins. Time           lingers so we may try to understand           sun’s song, the angle          of geese, a past insisting    on    presence.    We remember so little; even           less deserves     remembering.     Night brings us to focus; your darkness           fills my mouth. Every           morning, a surprise: lost things are found faster           than the rest. Not     every moment speaks our language. Do we           deserve a better                      ending, even if we
are not            better?