Wednesday, March 14, 2012

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.

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