April is Poetry Month, someone out there decided this. I am trying to write a poem a day, even while wrestling with what I am assuming is the flu. In the meantime, here is a poem from Dean Young.
But we can do no more than pass through
these rooms and their sudden chills
where once a plea was entered almost
unintentionally that seemed at last
to reveal ourselves to ourselves,
immaculate, bereft, deserving to be found.
