NAUGHT
There is naught to be done for it:
We are over
As the ocean is over its attraction
And is now crawling
Back from the shore,
Having fucked it thoroughly.
We are done
Like steak on a grill,
Sizzling and aromatic,
Waiting to be devoured.
We are finished
As a wood floor sanded to undeniable
Smoothness and shine,
A surface of beauty concealing
The pitted underbelly of it all.
Or like promising to explain to others
What happened to us.
Over, done, finished,
Is all we need to say
Or want
While the gifted interpreter
Turns a pirouette of words
And keeps you safe
With her basket of naughts.
