Associatively speaking,
loveliness may be
forever and ever, amen, but—
omens. Bad ones. Terrible juju.
Enough that you could cry
about having exact change.
We’re not immune.
Find a worm on a wet day,
take it into a bar, and watch it
weep at the tequila,
inconsolably,
with the dead inside.
We may get confused
and decide to bring flowers—
grief is what we can do.
Ache always swells
to the size of a pill. See:
we’re being attacked.
We’re being attacked
by our own hearts!
Don’t kid yourself.
Every time you’ve cried
there’s been a wolf.