sonnet xxix; divorce

tasting life again, there was no recollection of any kind of past.

a book closed at the final page.
a virgin look from a morning window, stirred by leaves falling from the tree with the swing.

thinking all the leaves are orphans.

about what it took to teach the clouds to clot, to make a fluke to spread, why bricks and cement make a wall...

why seem one's lips, so childish sweet adored, sometimes so bare?

where no one ever goes i aim my soaring eye, my heart, that knows a rushing quest to whom its tears are poured.
tell me, with a kiss, should i hate the sword that pierced or should i love the blood that flows?