With one sudden cut, I knew the wound was

endless – not with pain but with time – so deep;
all I can do is plunge like the spoon does
into the eternal brown sugar heap:
This is a karmic matter, I feel a
stronger sense of duty after this loss
than I ever have before; I steal a
glance into the void, see a purple cross:
Flowers and vases with peppermint paints
reveal the cycle that links our noses
and eyes, and hands, and feet, and gods, and saints;
some kind of tension whose release chose us:
Am I quirky? Yes. Weird? Doesn't matter;
things fall apart, intentions won't shatter.
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