Unseen Tears
can’t be scrubbed with what’s fresh,
or shed in church,
or unhitched from a loom of memory,
where they shuttle sure
as fate.
sad dimples swallow them,
tarnishing the eke
of on-the-edge irises.
they are jaded nutrients,
little packets of pump
in neck and forehead veins,
milligrams of heavy, heavy iron,
mined from brittle cheekbones
which tend to turn away,
chasing after the dark side
of the moon.
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