Soaked Through

Key-light the frame:

the abruptness,

the back of a mind;

he can’t even begin,

but he tries, tries an image;

he paints, holds forth,

gives back the real and

makes new rules

to handle this.

 

Like a poem left to itself:

“Just go”—it must go—

we follow close behind.

The boundless sad poem:

we give on to it;

we listen.

 

Echoes and swallows,

and deep-set eyes.

Stare into the pillow

where she lied:

soaked to the bone.

 

A cacophony of hours:

he drains—poetry read aloud,

left on its own—a poem—

makes heartache profound—

a few fucked-up reasons,

he writes,

to be left alone.

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