Falling


Of what
could have

been I make
An empty bed

Of dark Roses —
Of falling. And I lie.

—Love is a Church.
No — Love is

A forced march
Toward that Last

Moment —

My whole life
Held in one final
gesture

— That becomes a hole Or
— The thirsty mouth of a Well
— Or the ashes of a charred dog

I lie in my bed
The night is still
As lover’s sleeping, Truly Love is a wound upon a wound.

I finally fall
Asleep to the yowling
Of a chained cat.


c.a. leibow Copyright 2006