runner

Under that rug, corrugated documents of love,
With anyone else's name in any of the blanks,
Too many to count, none of them as whited out
As that fourth or fifth one,
And still more tears; why keep any fragment?
Why not burn them like the tenderness left
Drifting tenuously in the names...
Eyes without a face, a sadness more saddened
By the wearing of its mask...