Michael Daugherty
JUNE SCARS ON SEPTEMBER WRISTS
In the doubtful light of a certain room
at a strange, familiar point in time,
he kills a dream too beautiful to live
for any longer than the sun
could ever shine in memory or love
limp on beyond a summer's run.
Head down, changed in a chancer's year of ways,
he waits for one more fleeting day
to die, weeps without knowing why,
sees the year's changes with a stranger's eyes:
gentle hands disguised as fists,
June scars on September wrists.
SOFTLY, GLADLY THROUGH THIS ONE NIGHT'S GRACE
Softly, gladly through this one night's grace
I am gone, to the moments returned
when eloquence embraced wordlessness
in the leaf whisper fathering of one more loss
and thrush nest warmth already contained
the first frail feather thought of autumn,
this hushed moon and memory ghosted time.
This slow season of falling and fading,
of ripeness, decay and remembrance
amid the mists of a year's conscience,
I walk again the mossed ways of loving:
softly, gladly through this one night's grace,
this hushed moon and memory ghosted time.
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