When someone is hurting,
it is easy to say “stop hurting.” Ain’t it?

(In my chest there is a pouring cup
and it never runs out.)

Turns out, saying nothing at all
is just as bad as saying “please stop.”

(And on the cup, I mark
and remark your name.)

We’ve had this conversation 
over and over. Over and over,
we’ve traced these lines like sky. 

(Before, the cup upright.
After, the inevitable spill.)

Someday, a committee will build a machine
to extract all our rage, our sadnesses. 

(And in my chest there is a pouring cup

that flows, flows, and never runs out.)