Bloody eye o’ Zero, were
I as steadfast as thou aren’t
in your purple milky blur,
my unbeatable broken heart,
sickle cutting through the leaves,
cut through by our shadows, yet
that don’t mold your curdled cheese—
not a clot: your veins stay fed.
I arrived each hour last night
—or this morn—so that I might
see you flush, but you were pale white.