To the artist


To the artist


whose hands move
more priestly than a priest through
inane worlds of cherubs and clouds;
to the three net-menders sitting
in the dominoes of their doorways,
dressed in black— everyone mourns someone.
Today is my birthday and I no longer care  
for this old love of death,
the cold angel whose destruction                  
I learned to accept early in life.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Undertow Poetry Review, La Resaca First Issue

Lucecita Benitez - Cabalgata