I spent the afternoon
reading poems before the fire, alternating
between Rexroth on love and Harrison
on death – one after the other, first love
and then death, and then love
and then again death – but then
I began to cheat (as I sometimes do)
going from love to love when I’d had
too much death, or death and death again
when love had become too much. love
and death, diastole and systole. I wonder
if I just keep reading until the poetry
exhausts itself, will this all end with death?
or will death’s cold hand yield in the end
to the exquisite supplications of love?
© 2016 jafink/oldbones.newsnow.com