there is fight left

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this is no place for mirrors:

sharp shards,
sharper truth-lies;

there’s enough coming at us.

keep your beveled glass and
judging eyes and light-throwing.

i am coming apart
on my own terms

from the inside out,

like a million-watt
welded fist

–rising/flying/smoldering/smashing/burning/breaking–

spilling pieces of
dark-light.

there is fight left,

somewhere in this heft of
crying blood.

and if that isn’t true,
i don’t know what is.

for tjr

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