This Little Fuse

Occasionally I trip over the shrapnel of a love concealed.

My haunted frontline. Incandescent devices lace the minefield.

I never dreamt that when I felt it, my heart would be my warhead.

But these three words are charged and ready to explode.

Tentative, long-grown, now well-prepared; free and easy truth in my head,

At peril on your barbed wire lips.

An uncomfortable, intimate swarm when I light this little fuse and leave wasps in your ears.

This is our morning. This is no shell-shock nuclear conflict.

No transgression, no short-range weapon.

There is no safe, chemical procedure, erasing impact, blurring damage.

It is uncomplicated, unravelled, and unwound; it is sunrise.

 

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