Lungful of Iron

There is no preparation for the devastating meadows that shout through your days with the suddenness of a kiss
and leave you terrified of every child's question, every serene face, every cigarette butt rolling through god's earth like a pilgrim
every moment is holy for it means nothing and we're all damaged on the edges of our first loves that shape us in riddles like receding tides.

We're all so well trained and so open that we sink like bright shapes into the fog of forgetting that cracks every bud of spring.

Oh and we're all so much blood writhing in tightening circles for the beauty and the fear of it.