Pockmarks

“Oh lord”

and

forsaken dreams—

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.

 

She’s gone.

A poem to a misbegotten lover.

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