This is not any love song,
nor any psalm, for me.
A 20-something’s rush to the office store,
replace the paper to write a score.
A truck turns, and broad-sides his legs,
rescuers drag him, footless and burning,
not to sing, not to beg.
Not a love song, nor a psalm
…..of a poet - not better off dead.
In a still, lone bed of a rural ICU
a patient with a lung-implant
gasps a poem I do not know.
The Rag is passed and the new ear listens.
Is it a better love song or psalm
sought after the author's gone?
From a month spent in coma from a stroke:
springs one man, with one wife,
a universe-city of students, twin boys full of life,
to teach, to talk, to hug, to walk,
only one-armed not,
but for a love song, and a psalm for all.
She cuts on her arm, not for physical pain,
but release of heart’s balm on her psychic longing,
of a new moment dawning,
again…not better off dead.
Not that I cannot live without you,
But knowing I can see you again
is a love song
and a psalm
for a better-off day.