still

a worthwhile poem will not come from me
about him.
I’ll take notes from W. H Auden
and stop all the clocks
but I cannot speak a word.
my memories are fractured syllables
and my throat cannot let them pass coherently
I choke on the pale blush of sixteen roses
pronunciation difficult even after years of orthodontics
I could try to skate by, but he gave me even those
“something personal” to show me love
even after he saved my life as I know it
this facial precipitation is not helping
me see anything but him
and he told me all this education would be useful
but all it helps me do is rage,
rage against the dying of the light
because he cannot.
Dylan Thomas was wrong
so all I do is sit here
without poetry
as my reason for life
stills