
WELL
It starts with the heart's pulse womb's embrace nourishment from other as if self before we're spit into this slip slap of blue deafening white indifferent ground that shatters bone if we fall too long too hard yet sometimes hands, like whispers, rustle through loss's deep well to retrieve silken strands rewoven then into something like wings that expand beyond the contraction of loss and whisper through the dark you are not alone.
Thank you to the editors of 5AM for first publishing this poem.