The Mild Night I Died
When the tide becomes
listless and time becomes
wistless and I’m iterations
of you remind me
that nothing dies
and lead me by hand
towards the garden
Where the perfumed roses shiver
and I’m pulling soil over myself
under the black night
repeating in the softest words
I’ve never met a bad person
I’ve never met a bad person
2 thoughts on "The Mild Night I Died"
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I read at first “I’m iterations” as “I’m itinerant”, which is not what it says. Anyway. I love this poem, and the repetition @ its end–tentatively and ambiguously hopeful(?)
This is so compelling – especially the title and pulling the soil over one’s self, the repetition at the end…I enjoyed reading it