Sometimes reading your―
own poems, you start
listening to your heart again.

There was no concealing.
Deep red to blue, you
will read your mind.

You peel off the pomegranates
the purple heart,
brown eyes.

Unhoped for the
acid test, you burn your hands.
Dry wood goes into flames.

The stains now
cling. You cannot wash
away the domes, split eyes, the fall.

The night waits for
the unborn sun. You write a new poem.