Joy flecked with garnet or with turquoise;
grief that persists; after every iteration
the distress is deeper laid.
I find that I have less and less to say.
The anger subsides, and the past takes on an air
of inevitability. But that's what the past does:
its face enamels into mask. Historians
make their living by demonstrating why
everything had to happen just the way it did:
armies of apology. Until, if you're not attending closely,
you decide that everything that was awful
is okay. An excuse of cloisonné:
bruise and blood turn into mosaic,
little bits of blue and scarlet glass.