Stephen J. Golds
It’s snowing outside
my window and you’re dead.
In the ground miles away.
This is where all love goes.
Into the cold earth.
And the ones that lingered
I helped along with pillow to the face
or revolver to the head.
Knife to the heart or unkind word.
Cleaning up the mess that stains
the floorboards and remains on my skin
with bleach and tarpaulin sheets, I always wish
to take my actions back. All the words, too.
Knowing my blood runs too hot and then too cold.
But you’re dead and
it’s snowing outside
27 March, 2021