The weight of weightlessness

Did we die

before or after

we were killed

like a seed

that is made to flower

but instead stumps

in cement

and footprints

and voices talking about

the plants of spring

that haven’t sprung

even though it is late in the season

and each morning,

the dew drowns the world

in life

*

She gapes

that my poems have

something worthwhile in them

but need to be edited

and I’m surprised

that a reflection remains obscure

after scrubbing and scrubbing

the black gold

*

She goes

might just be

the most misery

that a poem

can hold

before it breaks,

though the poet

is already gone