It is already dead, this poem.
From that first moment, from
that first time, it has been dead.
I try an invocation of names
Lover, lover, lover...
Nothing but a blankness.
I try history, that one last hope
that might satisfy but there is nothing,
no heartbeat no rhythm, no shame or peril
or appreciation, just nothingness.
I shall give over my words to the banshees who would
utter them lovingly, I shall give over
my soul to the moon whose aurora
spreads across evenings like oceans
whose worry beckons me in, the gnarled
crack of time inviting me to her womb.
As I stumble through changes
to that one bitter moment
that screeches and screeches
as the poet, whose time is up,
would do, God having
given grace once too often,
outdone, fathomed, the last
procurement of blessings,
this poem dead on arrival
as I am, now, as I am.
If you've any comments on
this poem, John Cornwall would be pleased to hear from you.