Wednesday, 4 June 2014

I Start A New Poem

Somewhere, this flight ended
It comes back to what I can’t work out: when exactly did I lose
control over the Atlantic?  You give me no explanation 
and I don’t think I've given you anything that amounts to a reason, yet
something unnamed has been lost though there is no evidence
except in my body which is scattered with messages
(I have come to understand they will never be read).

I sorrow this sorrow though I am not insensitive.  I believe 
the lives of the disappeared have an infinite significance.  And this? 
This is just love, love, which I've always feared - and you've known - has
a trajectory.

No comments:

Post a Comment