In the grey sky, a blue wound:

as if what flesh once desired
found embodiment in this opening.

Sudden as epiphany, though not
earth-shattering— A square of paper
come to light again after many months

hidden in a drawer, inked lines
of handwriting. Despite such careful
unfolding, all that language

cannot dress beyond compression:
shimmer of what called our names
even after the curtain was drawn.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.