The past is for photographs, or funerals.
Callousness of your concern breaks in, freezing
me for a flash, until white-bread calls overtake
and I bury you again in coffin of my care.
A-listers are verecund, until lit.
“There are no truepennies”, an ethnographer
of emotions chortles before a mirror. It cracks.
Tain reflects this image to me. I see teardrops: