When You Cry

It's reprehensible, this sudden spate
Of weeping, unaccountably a flood,
Leaving one feeling like a wad of mud
Tossed like a raw fish on a dinner plate.
Was it one year together? Thirty-eight?
What does it matter? Nip it in the bud,
Don't let it filter down into your blood
Where passion digs too deeply. Innovate:

Try wrestling with the demons, maybe try
Dismissing optimism from the room,
Think only of the body in the tomb
And moss reaching our lips. (Did you ask why?
For Beauty.) Stop this bawling. When you cry
The tears soak through the wool on Fortune's loom.