in defeat

 

in the back yard dying he is

not and you were never and

we are buried here beneath

grey skies and unpaid bills, and

you said apology was easy,

you held out the knife, held out

the bones of anne sexton, the

idea of suicide as art, but i

was only 25

 

i was only 40

 

had nothing new to offer,

which made me the same as

everyone else, and in the back

yard there are children and in

the back yard there are the

screams of children

 

there is the laughter

 

we are lucky to

be more or less

 

we are alive

 

don’t believe the fuckers

who would tell you

otherwise