Perhaps, I've tired
my only beauty,
before I've tried
to love a beauty;
or found alone
my love before;
I've lost a love
to call my own;
for what's needed
between a loss,
between a grief
confused of cause;
an elegy of questions
concerned at none
but fool curiosity
if losing's fun;
poor self-insiting
a certain loss,
poor self-denial
what never was;
how possible yet
a mad possession
could come undone
to mere regretion;
maybe reasons bled;
my wounding more
not loss of strength
nor empty core;
but left in grief
my hopes in grave,
my widowed wisdom,
my fleeting faith.
