In my illusion of minimalism, hammering steel,
I scored a first wormhole on schedule, a hell of time. The entity, no,
I should say the accretion settled down. Its humble salve
spread over us both, appearing lost, scattered trying to remember.

Simply put, to divulge where wounds from speech are left
open, which sort hits or fits, kind friend .... mimesis
within nature, uppermost.
How is conveying sorrow possible, otherwise?