Some last poems of the sequence that’s dominated this year


One dawn I’ll wake, and pain’s become a bore,
my language of romance grown harsh and terse.
No sonnet left to mock you or to curse
Love’s playful vestiges a tiresome chore

I’d rather dust, or sweep, or scrub sheen
charred pinto beans of last night’s casserole.
Ring false and burst is how heart pays its toll
We are no longer what once may have been

for moments. Countdown seconds I ignored
until this end. Last touch last kiss. Remain
last word of kindness memorized to pain
light dark that flicker migraine, tired and bored

A checkered table where to play’s to lose
Time was, time’s past, my brazen traitor muse


About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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