Florid, All

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These plump hopes you’ve somehow kept— 

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While she scrubs bathroom tile,

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Until her fingers weep,  

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Thinking all things germ-speckled.

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Thinking hope itself mold-dappled.

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Tiny hopes soap streaking,

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Rivulets running crimson on the cream.

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Knowing gets under things.

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You’ve known only the mid-wit sun

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cosmic vine, a delicate clutch.

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But I watched her suffer.

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watched her bleed.

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And somewhere 

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beyond all knowing

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a meadow sways 

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where I’d hold her knowings,

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and let fall this thin time on the vine.