I wrote a sentence in my head last week.
It was beautiful and full of unspeakable slit-cloud glory,
the kind I cannot write, I cannot speak.
My memory sat on it, killed it, yes: dead, dead.
I try to tell my mindYou’re not the first
to mourn a perfect child, a perfect chance, by careless
heedlessness, but no, I will not listen. Put your ear
here; at my chest you will hear it: living, living.