A Kind of Madness

I couldn’t say where she is,
who she is with,
or what time she sleeps.
This sky stretches out
like an eternity of whispers,
and a tearing need blows from the east.

You ask why I can’t forget,
why I can’t just roll up my
pain with my sleeves
and get on with the business
of dying with other lovers,

fucking and bickering,
and making up,
until the sun herself
grows jaded, evicts me
from the wasted night.

You ask me why I can’t forget
a scent of wild hours
that dwelt in the dark armpits
of her fragrant life.
I don’t know, I don’t know why.

I am infected with a madness
of un-returned salt,
and even the calmest hour
is an ambush of memory.

I would like, somehow,
to exit this body of
congealed thirst,
the way one absently leaves a room,
and go far beyond
an earth of remorse

to a hill, a tower,
an unfamiliar town
that doesn’t recall me.
And then, I too
would know the liberation
of the one who kills love.

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