With dust
your deft grip emblazoned my wrist and face
in a brand
, the hot smell of a burning.
My wanting did more to destroy me than you ever could
with dreams, and fantasies, litling phrases
and the
constant
maintenance.
It was the the day before yesterday I thought about
crying, and how it was like making liquid of a tree
where the growth of branches just
floods away, and then
I was reminded of pruning shears.
After a growth has been removed, another so easily comes back
(the tall sky reaching ones are called suckers)
bearing no seeming memory of the excision,
but the history is evident.
I was reminded of sand.
How it gets into your shoes and hair,
food,
and the sound it makes with the shore.
Oh, and then there’s computers.
Michaud Savage 