there’s some law for this

on a platter, no,
I have not judged you well
                        these word-bomb-squibs
                        just hiss
or sputter in the dark
no missiles rise before the moon
                        no concentrated meanings, no
                        special effects, no
                        secret touch in hearts long dead
from one corpse to another
no speech connects
and yet there’s left an after word
                                                just heat:
                                                the bit it warms
                                                a little longer