The world was not
coming around. I give
out a piercing scream.
You tripped my poems.

Did not weigh in the
yearning― no nectar,
no creamer.

And over the shoulder, you
look back on the dwindling encounters―
between us to become
strangers. I am still green
still wounded.

Would not retrieve, the
small entrances. I see better
in dark. Light splits
the fat. Gray hounds leap
for the scent of blood.

I stand in witness box
for no crime.