there’s some law for this
handed
like,
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