by Robert Ford

Watching you proudly survey
the coloured carnage of torn paper
wreaked by that bonny child of yours,
with her innocence unveiled like a
slow dawn across a new face that is
half yours, who would ever know
how close you came to ripping your
own self apart, leaving no trace?
Who recalls the sorry collection
of broken spindles you once became,
that tree-snagged kite of paper and bone,
with its hollows of human space left
stranded after the flesh had all run away?

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