Everything’s gone right for you, fucking tomato.
These plump hopes you’ve somehow kept—
While she scrubs bathroom tile,
Until her fingers weep,
Thinking all things germ-speckled.
Thinking hope itself mold-dappled.
Tiny hopes soap streaking,
Rivulets running crimson on the cream.
Knowing gets under things.
You’ve known only the mid-wit sun
cosmic vine, a delicate clutch.
But I watched her suffer.
watched her bleed.
And somewhere
beyond all knowing
a meadow sways
where I’d hold her knowings,
and let fall this thin time on the vine.