by Dean Young
For weeks, I’ve gone unbroken
but not unpunished by the quiet
of zero degrees which is worse than
the quiet of twenty when at least
you can’t hear the stars wheeze.
I can’t make it any clearer than that
and stay drunk. A crash course
in the afterlife where I still walk
beside you but unable to touch your hair.
It worries me I could no longer care
or only in a detached way like a monk
for a scorpion.

0 thoughts on “Facet

  1. I have a book of your poetry and I’ve been walking around with “you can’t hear the stars wheeze” in my head all day. Oh how writing creates a life of sufferance.

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