you hold me anyway
and in a way that I oblige–
I am blindfolded,
only feeling

the way the soil holds the bones
of those we’ve learned to mourn
in private:
eternally and quiet
with an airy tightness and security
like the rosary barbs the
knuckles when it’s altar
or when it’s storm and I’m all fist
the way the heavens hold the pious,
the mob holds the riot,
the way the ocean holds all that
falls below that deep blue
surge of sea.

squall hits and I
drag you under to show
what made me.

“furor”

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