a lone watermelon chunk on her plate
the only thing the afternoon left untouched, but just as wet and red as everything else
she will wind her whining down eventually, and the strands of broken teacup hair are in her mouth,
they will shed the grasses of their skin, each of these glassy remainders, even a girl for the ground,
reflect the innate and ornate forgeries of love

it must have been that part of sunday when you first saw
the angry heiress of misdirection who, stirring fitfully in her drapes of dirty green
like an endless snake of hatred, hissed delicately of angels unlike her
she spoke of years, a time when any and all contact had a weariness tax

the loot of fertility, she is still and perfect in time, but there is a cry
to the earth to resolve its very place in her spoiled throat
it's the blank you want to fill with searching seeds that
hum revival but warrant the outcast state of the only two arms that will stay

and then on an empty street maybe past a decade and a day
you saw her cocoon creeping on the raven concrete
but its arms were torn and incomplete and its dust was strewn all over
she lay so far but still a snail and you caught on to her

and in the ear of her unconscious thoughts,
overcoming too many fears of hereditary nonsensical rhymes
you speak her quiet rage of a language
with a heart quenched of lifeless senses

your reminder—the titanic remainder of love far from pity,
a startling negation of her hypervigilance, and it is still as you had said later:
"But [my dear,] if life is two acts of one course,
the second we'll share may settle the first."