These circular words are dancing:
Carving rings into our chests.
Thoughts as brands, compassed
and encompassing the strange world,
returning, unsolved, to itself.
Scarring the irreconciled hearts.
What can one do but tremble
when the bleak ideas come,
unanswerable and cold?
One of us frowns, black eyed,
into the unknown fibres of his night.
The other twitching in her terror
of old discontinued discourse.
Of the weight of all those words
that fail, and the need
to engender them:
In the shifts of naked skins
in the reverent lipping things,
kisses, irrelevant, and sighs.
But what are these
when she cannot find the lies
to form your comfort?