When Did it Leave?
You didn’t get it off your buxom chest
the day it left,
because it crept out while you slept
and turn-tabled under slip-mats
spun like spiders
scuttling into nooks to build their houses there.
Maybe some got trapped in your webbed hair
waves rising, watched your hot brain blistered,
all capricious capacitors and resistors
worked up into a soapy lather that’s leaking
the love that dares to persist in speaking
those truths you had no use for.
When it left you by the trap door
something tumbled, something remained
too light to catch, too slight to snatch, a flame
that sparks in grief,
burns bright and lights your captured thief
who never shall be released.
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