is a compost bin
of poems never written
because their desire for love
embarrasses winter
in the raw way
that I want to write
every beautiful word I’ve ever known
to highlight some shape of you
find it sappy
when does the tree become too sticky
At what point do you feel stuck in my praise
Do I fear the decaying of my words
with all other living things
the very poetry of the perished
I would speak on the dead
but I would never speak on you
in phrases less than
the sonic universal birth
that spaced us together
in order for me
to be writing romantic elegies
I want you
to bury me a thousand times over
in whatever you grieve
Kail Anderson 