Lost

Lost

The hunter’s arrow crosscut through

the most sensitive

part of my imagination

as my poems coagulated

between each sunrise.

In the middle of this chaos my skin

dried,

hardened,

peeled,

and bled

in the gardens,

 the museums,

the streets,

mountains,

and rivers

where the mention of affection was lost

and you knelt,

sweating cold,

every time I struck your face

            —my love.