Rest your jaw.
The bone you have ground yourself down gnawing
will outlast your night.
Bury it, submerge it in your fecund sorrow
soil of your body,
and let the weeds grow over.
When you return, for an age gone by
perhaps the capsule preserved,
your selves exhumed, the itch of forgotten failures,
by then will no longer scratch at your soul;
perhaps it will not have been,
(when the memory no longer punctures you)
a pain worth keeping—
a time worth yearning.
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