Reveal

Occasionally, not by direct desire or intent
But by sidelong glance and consequence
She unravels her bun and
The universe comes down
Not all at once,
But slowly
Like the moon, at ten thousand miles per hour
Rising less than a degree per minute
"Your heart isn't in it"
She might remark, in passing
To an acquaintance
And paint whole anatomies of grief
In the movement of a wayward finger
Still rooting for familiar places
But her heart
Isn't in it anymore

Everything is converging now