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February 1, 2008
Letter 2
It hurts to look at you, your body bent
and wracked, and in the endless long months since
I saw you last, I have observed myself
amending memories, editing them
to make you whole again, and strong, a race
leaping across slick hardwood to our leash
and down the steps, or leaping straight aloft
in greeting after long days spent unwalked.
Truth is hard. A year ago tonight
you set aside your own end’s agony
to salve my own, and staggering in cold
familiar streets, you walked with me. The last
three blocks in three thousand miles walked. The end,
and all this afterwards beside the point.
Posted by: Chris Clarke
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Categories:
Poetry
