perhaps
part of you
hated me over dry months
and mornings where wet eyes
fed you like oats cut with steel
that you wish to portray
i have asked myself
if words i've woven for you
were burned on a pyre
made with those fingers
as delicate as a peacock's tail
would there be that part of you
that consigns me to a punishment
of partial neglect
for turning away
i
still do look upon that wound without you
healed but burning
like one's joints upon the fall of rain
or by a secret name
remembered only on mornings that burn
with wet eyes
as flags of your caring
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