Some say a poet lives by his words
but really he dies
the poet is only a man
wed to thoughts of another woman
even after many years
she still inhabits his mind
the real and imagined
have always waged war
he finds himself in some other country
overrun in a barren field
frothing with spittle
surrendered to the white of his bones
he writes his last word upon her
as if she is paper lifted by flame
paper lifted into the hollow of night
into that which is holy
his own body
he abandons to silence
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