this winter there has been
a violent thawing
of my being
a circular type of unbecoming
the person who death has made me.
tonight i smile at the perfect creature
turning his gaze towards my voice
as i sing bob dylan tunes to him.
and i think about her heart
that will never beat outside my body…
then gently dab off the salty wet spots on his cheek
fallen from my eyes.
but i keep singing
and try to welcome the world as it is,
and not as it should be.
into the wee hours of the morning
i keep singing,
and if i didn’t know any better,
i could swear i hear her
singing with me.