It is impossible.
\nThe soul doesn\u2019t recover
\nfrom one poem to the next.
\nIts wound just keeps getting wider,
\nuntil a river flows between its parts.
\nA clean cascade of colorless blood,
\nan artesian purity, because,
\nthe deep wounds of the heart,
\nthe soaring arias,
\nthe dances and waltzes
\nhave gone away.<\/p>\n
Only so many real things happen,
\nand opening the gates,
\nthey fled like birds,
\nlike tigers,
\nlike lizards that needed new marsh,
\nso in the end nothing is left,
\nbut trickles of nothing.<\/p>\n
The blood has turned to water,
\nthe words to rumor,
\nto adieus about rising and going to bed,
\nwith nothing that happened,
\nexcept growing older.
\nI am running out of days.
\nThe war has passed on.
\nThe love in my eyes
\nhas no look of return,
\neverything\u2019s routine.<\/p>\n
So I\u2019m going to throw a soiree,
\na party,
\ninvite everyone to come.
\nAsk all the things that ran away
\nto return,
\nand then take each poem
\nand burn it on a pyre,
\na dozen at a time,
\na basket,
\nbags,
\nuntil there is nothing left but ashes.
\nAnd invite everyone to have a bag of ashes,
\nto throw them on their sidewalks,
\non their gardens,
\ninto the air
\nto see a cloud of soot,
\nand know,
\nthat is my life.<\/p>\n
Every tear that I ever shed,
\nevery truth I ever knew,
\nall my ridiculous pretenses
\ngenuine as they were,
\nthrown to the wind,
\nand after the party everyone can stay,
\nand I will go away.
\nNothing in my hands,
\nan empty heart,
\na soul looking into a mirror
\nand seeing nothing,
\nuntil tomorrow when I return,
\nsit down,
\nand write a poem all over again.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
It is impossible. The soul doesn\u2019t recover from one poem to the next. Its wound just keeps getting wider, until a river flows between its…<\/p>\n