Sort of poetry by then, her juxtapositions
sans sequences, contexts, continuums;
sans proper tenses, pertinence, conventional wisdom;
a dark, intuitive truth, poetically incoherent beauty
plumbing a deeper level if (loved) one
only knew how to listen,
but one never does;
wrapped up in who she thought she was
and should have been,
tried earnestly to be or not to be;
exhausting after a while the listener,
telling her last minute truth
from the bed of a murmuring brook
and really what is there left to say or hear
after a lifetime of chatter and love,
dutiful endeavor, compulsive volatility?
That was her poetry, too, largely incoherent
to everyone around even herself
and yet, as I have suggested,
strangely brave, beautiful and worthy.
O child of God, how better to greet the mystery
than with humble bewilderment and inarticulacy?