The Wound

~ after Rilke

The poet gave himself to it:
to the work, to the roses, even
the one that opened the final
wound that would not heal. 

It wasn't the arm that became
inflamed; or the glittering
networks of blood,
withering in their trees.

The minute we break out 
of the chrysalis, the air
teaches of elegy. Broken jar,
dry well, empty house: un-

avoidable calling. Apprenticeship 
to this craft of loss. 

 

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