Slow to the quick, inflict
these maddening wounds
—deeper yet for the intrusion
of time by trust. Fresh cuts
will take a stitch, leaving
contoured maps in tangled depiction
of when or where, but never
how, or—most vexing—why.
Dare to reassemble, reorder,
uplifted by soothing breath. Remember,
Atlas bore no less than the sky above.
caroline ridgway 