Poem #88

Upstairs, I hear it through the walls

A monologue, it seems

Hers pitched so high

That is spears the muffle

His–

I assume it’s a his–

Too low to detect, like a whalegram.

You can hear tears in her throat

But not the words.

Sad, heart, fucking.

Somebody has done this,

Definitely a body;

Only personable cruelty can elicit

Such pinpoint hate,

Not malchance,

Nor thorny fate.

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