I find myself thinking of you -
broken arms and a restless saddle,
while my horse paws the ground
where we stand. There are no
unbridled sins for this moment, and
nothing makes any sense to me now.
I slam my fist against the wall, just
to see if any of this still hurts. The
book falls from the holder, the
candle taper goes out. What hurts
me the most, right now? That I'll
soon be dead and so much of the
book will be left unread.