Last night, I decided to
brave the bitter cold, and
go outside -- but for what?
Nothing was open, it seemed,
until I settled on the
bookstore, always a
place, for me, of inspiration, and perhaps
it wouldn't be too crowded
after ten.
I didn't buy any of
the books I'd gone in looking for; it
wasn't that kind of visit. Instead
I chanced upon a book of poetry --
the best from two years ago, it claimed, and
I decided that from now on I'd
read one poem out loud into my apartment,
every morning, making coffee, to put myself
into a poet's frame of mind.
Today, it was a passage
about death, written by
someone older than me, dealing with
friends slipping away, a funeral
for one leading into
a hospital visit for another, and
I cried as I read it, any listeners
would've been unable to
understand the words, because I've begun
to understand that feeling, as I think
about another
friend gone, leaving
his fiancé (nearly; for she had planned
to ask him on Tuesday), and I realize
I can't write about any of this
in clear, traditional sentences, the words
would get stuck, no --
to let this out, it must instead
be a poem.
