(for Theodore Roethke)
We die of love, or anything at all.
I drew a million breaths, but could not sing.
My bones are of the earth, and heed its call;
I’ll dream a sun, and feed myself on ink.
Be still, be still: a color’s in my eyes.
What’s sleeping? Will I wake? Have I a soul?
This water’s cold. A stone does what it likes.
My breath is gone. The sea’s song fills me whole.
Image: “A Girl Doesn’t Need Anyone That Doesn’t Need Her” by Flickr user Holly Lay, published under a Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 Generic (CC BY 2.0) license.