Two Poems
At the Crux
Grieving takes its lyric turns,
anciently,
sometimes en pointe.
At the Crux
Grieving takes its lyric turns,
anciently,
sometimes en pointe.
Dear Emile, I'm tolerating the tribute
of these flowers in the garden you once planted—
their modulating wits, the conspiratorial
Lack-luster We told them these were our “long, empty
friends and hours” and that we’d nap or primp,
acquaintances but instead we rose to all the trappings