After expiration I stare hours
at the Hurricane lamp. Outside
spring rain fell on Soria
fell on the laurel she'd planted
now happy in the onslaught of
Miguel, my spirit is shred. I do prefer
my own death, I think, prefer to kill
a thousand bright-eyed men
for her one life. I know, I know; there's nothing
original in this sentiment. We want to die
with what has died.
I stared into a sickle flame
until the kerosene ran out.
Her body in the dark
was the only light. Thought:
I should probably call the priest.
In sum, She lives in me, more than ever
and I firmly believe I am to recover her.
Perhaps, through this
Gods come into the world?