For
Armand’s Grave (1)
No great
remorse—or want—
things move
toward seclusion
when you,
forgetting the verse,
remember the
clay.
What’s
forgetting but distance,
you and what
you already are?
With the
walls down
the words are
better than
we can ever
know.
Slowly
they tear the
thinker apart,
you say.
Unthink
reason, for reason’s
not worth
tearing down.
