Deathbed
Sort of poetry by then, her juxtapositions
sans contexts, tenses, pertinence;
a dark, intuitive truth,
a 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 to 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 incoherence?
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