Tuesday, November 3, 2009

"Coda" by James Tate

Love is not worth so much;

I regret everything.

Now on our backs

in Fayetteville, Arkansas,

the stars are falling

into our cracked eyes.

With my good arm

I reach for the sky,

and let the air out of the moon.

It goes whizzing off

to shrivel and sink

in the ocean.

You cannot weep;

I cannot do anything

that once held an ounce

of meaning for us.

I cover you

with pine needles.

When the morning comes,

I will build a cathedral

around our bodies.

And the crickets,

who sing with their knees,

will come there

in the night to be sad,

when they can sing no more.

1 comment:

  1. amazing poem. can't believe i haven't read it before.