You’ve met before. Done
battle. Burst flares
in cold air. Twined cries
through trumpet flower
vines. Touched their throats
open until they gave up
scent. Paid tithes through
keyholes, sprung hinges
from their bonds. You’ve
tendered your surrender
over and over. You’ve
bowed beneath their
blades. Because of this,
weeds are a mercy
as well as the gutter
awash in rain. What you
no longer have
can’t be taken.
In response to Via Negativa: Vigil.