All it is, scribble symbols,
pretentious painters of letters
left on a page, praying for people to read
meaningless (but oh so vast and deep!) words.
Take a burning tree and flower it up,
elevated to the Crucifixion!
let Icarus drop unnoticed, but paint him
anyway, immortalize him in art.
So it is written,
so it’s done.
Without crying I can picture you
dying. Some guilt and recoil, the shudder
of a spider landing just covertly enough
to lose in your shirtfolds.
Loneliness. Your slow decline, the righteous
stubbornness of keeping you alive for some miracle.
Miracles come, but you go. You’ll always go
in these pictures, sometimes a final light smile
or a twisted grimace. I don’t know why
the twisted grimace – to love more now, maybe –
your pain is real and does not end until you do,
but it works. The picture gone, I love you more.