by Darryl Price
your matching glass up to mine in the air anymore, or click
your widening fingernails against the hard bed rail in
protest of anything you might be feeling in the
depths of your nerves, but I swear I can
still hear you breathing in and out from your
saved paper thin sentences, watch you thinking in the
minute choices you made for every single word laid up or
down . They say you very much liked to play
for hours in the sunshine with your favorite flowers at hand
and any visiting bees, but as soon as another
person popped into the scene you were incredibly gone, bolted
behind shut doors quicker than a wind through a
light piece of blown brown hair. That hair haunts me to this day.
I've often looked into those flattened out black eyes, wondering
about the world they lived in. I was told
you had many poems from many admirers stuck all
around the rooms like pinned butterflies. None of these
wings would lift you far enough away from the
carbon monoxide fumes to set you free from the
folly of your own unique fact. Everything settles. The
next stir may bring us closer to some peace
with understanding, if we let it, if we allow
it into the secret places. Or the forest may
decide for us where to bury the lost evidence.
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There comes a time when the inevitable meets the evitable and nothing more can be said, except that poets then pick up the strewn about petals and reconstruct a thing like a flower just because it seemed obvious that there could be one inside the other. It's a point that doesn't need to be made. It's a point that doesn't matter. As soon as the poet lets go the damage that was done continues to disintegrate before your very stepped down upon by sadness eyes.