Vulture Magazine The Michaelmas Issue 2013 | Page 5
except the peal of your beloved name.
I won’t throw myself down stairs,
nor drink up poison,
nor can I squeeze the hammer upon
my temple.
Apart from your gaze
there is power in no knife’s blade
over me.
Tomorrow you’ll forget
that I crowned you,
that I scorched your flourishing soul,
and the careless carnival of futile days,
shall ruffle the pages of my books…
Do the dry leaves of my words
make you pause
gulping air?
At least let
me sprinkle with final tenderness
your departing step.
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