I tried lacing loss into these lines,
thinking to bind it safely there.
But when much lifetime had raced by I
trapped in the scrag noose, too,
joy and daylight.
I bottled also bile in these poems,
thinking to isolate
the toxin. But when much lifetime had raced by I
found it on the mantel.
I thought to lower these poems into a salt dome—
stable, it’s said, for aeons.
And who isn’t one?
I tried to write invisibly,
but all lifetime is a candle.