Leaving. Not so much as having.

You wish yourself out of arms’ reach the way you wish yourself out of your city. There is logic in bereavement, but decry worship. The way your city was thrust from your thigh and what was wine ran like night through bone that is implacable. The night sky is cock-hard moving over you. And water on your tongue is nothing like fire, but dirt.

This theology bears the weight of every untraceable sadness.

What your language touches moves. What moves beckons murder. And what is murdered scratches a worn whisper onto all of the faces.