. . . and the poem wanted
to be just like you! it agreed
to erase itself . . .
He stood quite near
in the quaint, positive rooms
looking down at you as someone looks
at a stain on a new shirt, perhaps,
not hoping to get it out
but hoping someone else will get it out . . .
It will become clear
to you why you
offered yourself to your own destruction
believing he was all power and consequence
though he made his hands
into fists his hands
meant to hurt you he
didn’t didn’t didn’t didn’t mean to did he—
and you looked up at him
with all your childish logic,
you who did not rank among the saved . . .