What can you say to a girl
who destroyed her world?
To write what she's learned in a poem
to burn in the sky?
Or should we shun her with love,
with needed non-judgment
That only can come
from silence?
The flame of all that is wrong
still burns in her bones,
And the matchsticks of others lives
still smoke on the ground.
They say the resolution
must be holy,
Beyond the restitution of callously
agreeing to live,
That gifts all around will be bestowed
on those who still hold knives
That will shape them, as boulders
are pared by a stream --
But the stream, it seems, can't bear
to see us wait,
So its chords, to entertain us,
don't resolve,
They only move to more minor
permutations,
As if it knows, as it glows
in crystal shapes,
How to soothe our souls with the pleasantries
of resonance,
So much so it seems it's only the water
that remembers.
