by Charles Perkins
Slow, unobserved,
unceasing your blood ran.
I waited years for you
to bleed where you were
unknown; to know.
I wished by accident.
I did not stop
your death on my day.
Your skin—Sorry,
I have to—was pale as snow.
But, maybe
that line is not so bad,
if I mean sleet, if I mean
dangerous and frozen rain.
I did not bring you—
like your God took you
from the Earth—closer to me.
I only dreamed
by accident. If only
I could ever bring you
here again and leave you.
Know I
would, and know
I am truly ashamed.