Monday, July 31, 2006

a generation

July, hot as blood, streetlights on midnight
leaves & I had just emailed a friend,
had asked her whether Creeley was alive
or dead, was sitting in a chair next to
the bed where my children slept.

Was writing down thoughts and lucky numbers.
A list of songs. Suicide poems for seventeen
poets I’d never met.

It was easy, knowing how little
they had to live for.

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