say a few words to the flock,
with leaves in the margins
like daggers, and moans
in the wind; I save a few tragedies
for those interested in them.
And I wake…
so sorry, and yet, so much more than that.
A lifetime from now, I’ll think it over:
it’ll linger on, swollen for her body,
leaking for others.
A poem to a misbegotten lover.