Trying not to make a poem

My friend is dying.
I spent the poem trying not to tell you,

but the trees filled me
with such guilt,
I enjoyed them so.

(Sara Blake’s poem to the poet Max Ritvo)

My friend is dying and the trees are blooming. The sun has turned a red peach in the West. I am spending  my poems. The trees fill me with guilt. I am not choked. But I enjoyed them so.

I am spending all my poems on trees still blooming. My friend is dying. His poem is choking .I am trying not to make a poem.


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