i write you now
from a place of familiar
pain.
the scenery has changed
again
but the plot remains
much the same:
senseless and
tragic
with a touch of the absurd.
hello, old friend,
so nice to see you again.
how have you been holding up
beneath the weight of this
brave new world?
the stars are quiet tonight.
from where i sit
even the moon
finally
seems tongueless
and there is a vacancy
wider than the sky
lodged firmly
in my heart.
nonetheless,
it seems so strange
to have come so far
only to arrive at
nothing
as my skull vibrates
with Greek myths and
ancient Chinese tales
I remember Faulkner saying
that it was good that they put love
into books
because it could not survive
anywhere else
and I still hear Leonard
singing
“I’m glad you stood in my way.”
and i understand that
and more.
i do.
but all of it
ultimately fails
to comfort me
now.