Classic Poem

Your lover held you
by the throat, still

you sang
like a swan.

The arrow falls as it must, bringing
down to the tremulous

pulse of the feathers
as they flutter almost
aimlessly
one final plume.

Let the wind spread tufts of milkweed
across the rippling surface of the brook

to mark the place
you fall, you

stain
the inevitable color
of your father's blood.
Your mind descends through currents it has found, refines
suffering
which would clarify
beyond song

all endings and all beginnings.

The flowing spring lay opening, deepening
when you died

among long purples.