“The fear
that all this
will end.
The fear
that it won’t.” - Rae Armantrout
Early in the
morning; the beginning,
the day dust was given breath,
the day lust first laid its fingers on your stars,
told you all you could not touch, shined brightest
in the dark. The day you learned trust, how it is made
of porcelain, how the privileged don’t hold it so
carefully as the poor. The day love opened
your sky, left a reason on your skin and a reflection
in your eye. Today, a freshly cut
wound of yesterday, bleeding
a sunrise that you missed this
morning, a roaring red falling
behind the hands.