by Bill Yarrow
The diagnosis? A lesion. Of
enthusiasm, Fitzgerald said.
For Baudelaire: the shadow
of madness. Its sallow wing.
For Nijinsky: Love, aka God.
For Groddeck, It. Only it.
What do you call it, you who look at us
with impossible eyes, you who call to us
ineffably in fog, you, irredeemably Braille,
who run towards so many savagely ravaged
by rage, who despite death's best intentions,
persist, who, seeing hope's aloneness, caress.
All rights reserved.
A version of this poem appeared in Literary Orphans.
Thanks Scott Waldryn and Mike Joyce.