It Buds, It Bends, It Dies in the Glare

after Kristin Hersh

Never mind math, mind

fire: underneath

and shredding, still does.
What good’s fortune meant

to do—an aperture, a slur—
fault what you turn into

upon looking in any wrong
direction. Where did you,

when did you, meager
youthface and no shirt.

Fine to be alone, to fall
in a box of light alone, to take

it with you allover, finding
certain others, therefore, gone.

Limit seen of snowsqualls,
sandstone, snails—none

your fault but find it here—
a hundred blood footprints

on the bathroom tile
and you’re never getting out.