Aug 122011
 
There is something hard 
		in the world,
unkind,
		stubborn,
				blasted black
as a broken fingernail placed
		in danger
				of a too-great
thwack!
		Every pebble is a pain
				worn smooth
by lovely water
		waiting only for its
				proper shoe
its hidden niche
		to strike!
Pain . . . pain is greater
		than the imagination.
				Pain defeats
the flow of poetry,
		rills its lyric surface,
				squats in its depths
unperturbed
		by beauty.
				Sweetly the poem
pretends otherwise,
		ineffectually
				but sweetly
singing against the stone's grain
		just as though
				no sob would come.
But the stone is there,
hard.
		Death
				is a measure
and settles it all
		at last.
				No hand, no voice
defeats death.
		At least it is a cease
				from pain.
If imagination then could speak . . .
		but then,
				it cannot.
So it is only
		with broken voice
				with breath inswept
between
		everlasting griefs
				the poem is known.
Remember me,
		with all your troubles,
				remember me--
that's how most of ‘em
		begin
				sprinting sprained
until the flowering baton is passed
		hand to hand
				and voice to voice
and you and I are left
		in our pain sweetly
				with nothing of our own
to sing but
		"Remember me."

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