It is there without so much as
an inkling of thinking,
before all the dreams are gone,
before the work of waking has begun,
your name like breathing in
some wondrous lilting bloom
thick with heady pheromones or
that hook of a song repeated like
a mantra, the phrase clinging
to the muddle of being, a righteous
ringing out. Your name, then
the litany of rebukes and refusals,
swallowing fresh sorrows spitting
those small soft syllables, nevermore
nevermore, the grasped truth that
the heart doesn’t heal and
the hold won’t relent. So I speak
your name aloud to starless night
and loveless room, writing down
these artless unread lines,
hope held as if by the grave.