A Poem.

Believe it or not, I wrote this in 2016.  I don’t really do poems anymore.

CW: bad poetry, also death (who knows which is worse)



“If the Elegist Took Requests”
Spin me a tour de force, centrifugal,
my deviant lines
a liability no longer.
Pen wet with grief-light, sketch me into stars,
brief against the black
my extraordinary fortune.
My final breath would stir the lucid chimes
that hung silent
through all the long tempest of me.
I laid my palm to yours.  Now it would sing,
an ice-knife to the heart.
So dear.  (Too dear: your barren-salted eyes
shuttering to see the way
to lay a line).
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