88.

Pain like bread breaks and tears, and in France

The smell of dough is everywhere. I have

Given up weeping aloud. I was allowed

That at birth. I tread on stones like puns

Brittle, and where dogs go unrestricted

And make us dodge their assertions like bad

Metaphysics. I have loved you like the sun

On my skin, hot even in January

With its moulten pleasures, or the cool wind

That washes over us. I feel as if

I have betrayed our taciturn love

For the broken gods of words, and I’m not

Sure whether this iteration really becomes

The ripeness of our silence startled with gladness.