.

Last Rite

They may not,
But I know how I feel.
I know cold regret,
The unexpected pickpocket:
Here one moment and gone the next,
Unperceived and unwanted,
Unexpected and unmanageable,
Thieving from my inner pockets
My dignity, my composure,
My independence borne out of
Endless calendar days
Stretching forward into my past;

I now perceive
The thief’s retreating shape,
A mile ahead.
I can tell
By the resigned curve of his shoulders
That—from his own curse—
This criminal takes no pleasure
In his occupation.

I feel
Soundless explosions,
Fury from below.
Why is it much harder
To recall hurt
Than to feel?

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Step Back