All the poems in the world
are about the empty
space in the bed
And all the operas
are about murder
End of nights and new moons
rip stillborn sadnesses fresh
without anesthesia
The operas describe
perfect afternoons
Middle of days and clouds
soften the night’s powers
comforting slowly
All the poems sit
in that empty bedspace.
Words and song notes
wander around through woods
on small islands
The singers’ volumes
heal eve’s injuries.
Spaces left empty, still warm
are misplaced recollections
of leftover energy.
Poets react equally to balance
wistful relief.
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