Kathleen Kirk

destroys you. Later she will break

all the bones in her writing hand

sliding off a horse, scudding down

a hill. Your own joints feel the pain

of disconnection. Everywhere, your body

a telegram. No good to wish for a softness,

dispersal, seed set free on a wave of air.

It’s already granted. Someone will always

count the words, encourage verbs. Listen

to your own breath. Listen hard.