If Orpheus Were Honest with Her
Today I am afraid of ghosts, the things
I searched for in you, sang of you.
Shining hazard, roundabout,
piece of myself you’ve never seen: never
your somewhat puzzled self, combing out
your westering hair, shaking your head
at something you’ve just read.
(Days and nights I spent as
contradiction, tattered flag
which now goes by your name.)
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