she is the author of my miseries
and my harmonies
(my memories)
like someone pulled
a string through my mind quickly
enough to
tear it in half
that’s
some gaff to be ashamed of
or smacked for
or smacked for
there would be no
hope of understanding it
if it wasn’t for the
way she lied
like I do
gratuitously fluently
genteelly
in desperate handfuls
exacerbating
her sonic shatter
while waters
in towers
chill