I see that you’re dead
In the alum news
Dear poet, so beautiful
So rich, such daffodil
In your youth, so perfect
That envy wasn’t the word
(I scoffed at the titles
Of your poems—you
Were that good) envy
Wasn’t the word—desire
Desiring your art
Your scope, your beauty
And you dead now
By your own hand (your
Only clichéd image)
A flower cut back into
Brown, your own hand
Your own madness
Dear poet, so beautiful
That envy wasn’t the word
All your own always
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
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