October 26th 2021
Is a grounded group of birds a flock,
still, or is their recognition based
on leaving lakes behind? Is a toast
a prayer to drink, a prayer a toast to God?
I know as I sit here that somewhere there dies a boy
in a street, his mouth filling up with leaves.
I know when I leave here my blood will transform a cup
in the mouths of my friends. I know I’ll never know
quite how or when to say goodbye,
but hope it’s known, in general, that I wanted to.
Towards the end of vast and massy chains
I am, I think, responsible for dim
and spacious griefs. Forgive me. Cancel Christmas
if it helps, swap my soul (goodbye) for thine.