This spring could not resurrect either,
and his youth is
nailed to a cross
where there is no one.
Another year passed on his shoulders
and she left him a little more buried
forging assumptions as truths,
the same thread again
from when there was how to wait.
He lives checking what he knows,
on a straight slave road
fashionable, biting
the length of each thorn in the crown of it,
knowing half of the sentence.
He takes courage to learn to walk
under those shoes of shadows,
to accept the night as the best part of the day,
where an open door is no longer an answer
and not look like the sick body of a horse.