Sometimes words bubble up like spring water.
But this is blood. My world is bleeding
And nothing is whole any more.
Open wounds and white bones shining;
Pain as loud as semi trucks gearing down to go uphill.
I hear them at night, the sound comes
With the cold careless moonlight across the bed.
Numbers on their sides telling how much they can bear.
No numbers on me. Just the sign for infinity, I guess.
Woman holding up the roof, turned to stone.
The rumble of the trucks like the earthquake
That will turn the stone to dust.
