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.