But, yet, I've reconciled such loss,
	  Made grief my dish and my dessert,
	  And lived to love again and cry hurt,
Heedless of my passive loss.

The hearse triumphal in the rain
	  And heaven all one weltered bruise
	  That threatens tears, nor offers dews,
Takes hope from throats, gives hymns of pain.

The author's pen cannot note the deed
	  That seared the author into ash;
	  He only sings how feels the lash:
The sting, the wet, the heat, the need.

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Poems in pieces

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