if only to keep
death
at bay.
I know
that the burned
witches,
that the seared flesh
of the enemy-
O we are all
each other’s
enemies,
even sometimes those
who lately
were
lovers-
are not
to be reconstituted
nor healed
by my
falling
in love;
& yet
here is
the paradox:
love drives
the poem-
& the poem
is
hope.
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