This New Love Fade

To love is to accept that one might

die another death before one dies one’s own.

Marianne Wiggins

Somebody to follow him? I have to strongly disagree.

It resembles proposing a subsequent paradise

as though it were feasible on the grounds that you played

with holy messengers in your experience growing up and accepted

in the wings of their tissue.

A little kid strokes the tight twists

of her hair and thinks she is one memory.

A little eye glimmers in the evening glow

expecting to be liberated of its affection for water, of

hazy evenings, of wings, tangled

in the hair of heavenly heads.

I would pass on again for that young lady

who got all that the world recommended

as though every second were a climb.

In any case, I have spent my demises in cherishing him

as he kicked the bucket. Furthermore, in the event that this new love closes

it should happen in me

like a mountain behind a town

at the point when the mountain is made to watch that town

enter flares and smoke

until it finally looks like the quintessence of affection,

that pantomime of his' heart

which, one day in the young lady's subsequent memory,

turned into a little eye in moonlight

where he resided in her, long-lasting

as anything proposed to coincide

with the unreplaceable.