Poetry.
Words.

The way you look
at a field
of tulips sometimes
in June.
Nice arrangement.
Tag it to
an experience.

Walking a forest trail.
Hear water dropping
from a nick-point.
There is a form
created at contact.

And concrete and corners.
Doors. Windows.
A slash of dress
against skin.

The hand reaching
across table.
Through experience.
Through wine.
The hand signing.

And it disintegrates.
Pick-up sticks.
Bodies after the explosion.
An inability to construct.

Because you’re forever
caught in the amber moment
of explosion. And are
more parts than possible.

And there are only
words. The blood
that bleeds
from the shattered soul.