i dare you to find all the concordances in this one.

quintillation

the child's face
is a promise.

you had this promise.
no one keeps them.

the voices are trimmed of vowels
the senses pared

the hands that were
paws, no hint of nail

articulate. to five, to five, to five.
no one keeps them.

the soul drops.
the cloud is water

that refuses to be. Old age
has its benefits, wisdom

that says seven
is better than eight

that the further you reach out
the more you lay on the ground.

for what fires do you reach.
no one keeps them.

an age ago summer
was a promise.

the tulip was named.
kingdoms of worm and cicada

pent up with rivers and rainbows.
no one keeps them.

you were named.
five letters. five years old.

why were you named.
no one keeps them.

(no subject)

Rien n'égale en longueur les boiteuses journées,
Quand sous les lourds flocons des neigeuses années
L'ennui, fruit de la morose incuriosité,
Prend les proportions de l'immortalité.

Nothing can equal the crippling days,
When buried beneath years of snow flakes,
Ennui, fruit of dreary apathy,
Takes on the proportions of immortality

from Spleen (ii) (translation) by Baudelaire

(no subject)

there are pieces
of everyone I've ever loved
still in my heart.

this is the truth.
I don't tell this to frighten you
or to hold any part of me back.

this is just an explanation
of how I walk. awkward and lopsided,
almost backwards, but not quite.

it's because of these pieces
that I am so tough to move.
the heart drags behind

in the dust. I carry it.
my four-armed cross,
supporting me.

still, I give it to you.
still, it is yours. but please,
please,

allow me to carry it.