it is asking too much of
some types of pain
that they be always silent,
always contained
in a heart beating violently.
and asking too much, maybe,
of some great shames
that they be held so privately,
like flames
in a hearth
too old to be known,
deep down in the earth
where the metals glow moltenly.
the richness of them
like wide jewels, like amber
pried from the tree, like fruit
on the vine, like fine dirt,
like cold sky--
hurt
is mine
in all its
fecundity.
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