There are two versions to every poem – the crying version and the straight version
Is there a mechanism of death, that so mutilates existence no one, gets over it not even the dead?
When I sleepwalk into your room, and pick you up, and hold you up in the moonlight, you cling to me hard, as if clinging could save us. I think you think I will never die, I think I exude to you the permanence of smoke or stars, even as my broken arms heal themselves around you.
I have always intended to live forever; but not until now, to live now.
Perhaps poetry will be the canary in the mine-shaft warning us of what's to come.
Never mind. The self is the least of it. Let our scars fall in love.