a  flawless poem
if such there were,
will always be,
the next one

my poor soul,
my rag tag heart
has no censor,
so careless, reckless,
as if words were but
frivolous treasures,
easy spent, easy get

if only, how I wish I
could harvest my best,
with golden cutlery excise
the single flawless poem,
that I know in my possess

lay down this hand so weary
from cupping tears,
be satisfied at long last,
so much so,
that my casket lowered,
hands in repose companioned,
clutching his best, easing his rest,
a paper record to join his ash,
his flawless poem,
at long last

I'd write a sonnet with impressive lines
if I had impassioned things to say.
I'd make a stab at sweet designs,
But that would very soon betray

My lack of poet's license guise,
And dearth of any flowery phrase.
In truth, my awful stumbling tries
Would surely bring dismay, and raise

A question why I dare pursue
A phantom dream I can't fulfill.
No doubt by now you know it's true.
I am no poet. Rest easy, Will.

My sonnet is no masterpiece.
I hope it's not a disaster piece.

So many things to remember
and I cannot seem to keep them
all straight.

They are twisting
& turning around each other
only to disappear until
tomorrow.

Tomorrow I will remember and it will come
crashing down that I forgot.

But it will be too late.

The rain falls; I remember that.
And the sun shines, too.
And my god I can remember
your lips.

But these many things -
these other small, little, many things -
they keep me floating.

And I forget them
And I drown.

If I could put to words
what this year was,
I would say--
****.

**** this ******* year.

Thirteen years into
the second millenium,
was as unlucky as the number
said it would be.

This year was about
being on my own,
being sad,
being alone.

Yet I found,
poetry, and that death
could never be the answer
to questions I'd rather not ask.

I found friends
in people halfway
across the whole
world.

Love from the people
of my kind--
poets--
who loved and despaired.

This year was not
the one I would remember;
because new beginnings
are often disguised
as painful endings.

So here is to
my new beginning.

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied.  It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.