Yours was the death, yours was the dying.
I found you in
the pauper’s field
and something sang through me
ever was a song)—
which I could
speak to myself, very quietly,
and move along.
Oh in my heart,
do you not think I am a part of this?
Bless the failure, bless the flame,
bless my fruitless attempt,
And what do I do with this love,
that sticks like pitch to my heart—and will never
let me go.
Why I am standing in your image.
Do not try to change it—
to turn it into something
joyous and free—
you are here—you are gone—
thanks to American Poetry Review