The word died, tired and sad
like an old calendar. How good the pin-pricked
organ, and the wound that bleeds forever,
filling the sea.
How good all the offers that expired,
and the days that passed by quickly, some of them
in October,
when late in the evening no one sees you
coming home from work.
How good the wanting
to care for, how good the futile,
the faded appointments, and
all of these things
that can never absorb all care.
