Sometimes you spit chips
of fire and ice into your poems.
At other times tendresse blesses them
like a visiting angel.
But the anger is not devilish
just very harsh, exacerbatedly human.
I find myself wanting to meet you
in your work. I read you over
and over until the poems become
like another voice in my mind,
never my own. Yours is too honest
to ever resemble my inner monologues.
Yours is a dialogue with death and life,
the latter uppermost. You will cling,
limpet lady, to your loves and
detestations until your always
ascending rocket of self burns out.
I doubt I will live to see it. I don’t
want to. I want to witness your
continuing dispensation among the poets,
the magic of the age.