MAYBE THIS WILL BE BETTER TNHAN THE LAST,

I said, in vain, of course, but

Already I had mispelled the title

And the word “misspelled” and all

I can think to write is the quiet

Word “ephemeral.”

There is no greater loss than that

Of the language through which we

Breathe, except, perhaps, for the dirt stain

Creeping up on the clean white of my

Sandals. Perhaps.

Poetry is the controlled flight

Of the albatross

Over that which cannot be controlled

But it is also the ability to

Describe our graves as a

Deathly brown.