atarax

What we have learned about broken feelings
can never be removed from us.
They are telling: a bitter tonic
that registers all desire and beginning.

A timbre into secret whispers
that you wince and hope to pry
from memory. So there must be another,
more convincing name for old promises,
the kind the body wrote a new language
through lost years,
the grace of falling down inside a closet.

A racket and clatter released at
the edge of conversation.