The past,
A strong gut of regret
And the ever-ringing voices;
Pain,
Where the thorax meets the abdomen—
A kind, of unknown origin,
Or varied —
A liver that has given up,
Or nights spent sitting on the living room floor,
Or cups, stained with lipstick and coffee,
A head that belonged on the stakes —
That could see things, one shouldn’t.
One wouldn’t write,
If one could afford to;
For one ages faster
But never dies
In poetry.
Death —
Stars,
Young lovers,
Children and good fathers,
Evil rarely deserve death.
My bones ache too much
To carry my soul well.
.
