Deathbed Sort of poetry by then, her juxtapositions sans sequences, contexts, continuums, sans 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 incoherence?
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