That obstinate hope that
Will not die
That bitter-sweet of self-deceit
How perennially do we all
Punish ourselves
Masochists are we all
The prick
The pain
That burst of a rush of
Crimson streaking your happy
World of sun drop yellow
Soft tender ingenuous
Babies on all fours
Across this
Melded landscape of dark uncharted
Hearts
Triangles into circles
These wooden building blocks
They never come to anything
