We like loss to be quiet.
Outside, flowers with lemon-stained throats
smack noiselessly at the breeze though their mouths
don't close, no they cower
to closing.
When I speak, my voice speaks
over me, its light notes
ligatures to make you
calm again. To relieve
each sound of its wail
you knock, I exhale—
we like loss to be quiet.
This entails no loveliness. If I loved you less,
I would be aggressively lovely.
Outside, each flower makes a face.
My face makes faces but each
looks, you say, the same.
What stupor kissed me,
revoked me, left me bent?
Is there assent in me?
We like loss to be quiet.
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