ISSUE: Winter 2022
It follows you everywhere,
I think, even this hillside
of mint and yellow gorse
on the far side of the sea,
across the rhododendrons,
the rank flower of manure.
Just this morning was tea
in the market, was the man
and guitar and his version
of Neil Young’s “Helpless.”
Just this morning, laughing,
louder than I should have
in the Titanic museum,
where the news stays bad—
help, big sister, reads
the distress call reprinted
bold on the exhibit wall.
It follows you everywhere,
finds you out, puts its tragic
and stupid stops to you.
Beyond that ridge stand
the sea and the wind—
they say again and again
You will never learn, you
can always be sadder, wiser,
you can start again among
those same rare blossoms
but never even see them.
