Only Feelings

Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem

Events don’t matter.  No.  Not really.  They,

At least the later ones, are too like sleep

That lacks real dreams, like lovers as they splay

Their thighs in coma-like exhaustion, deep

Away from crush of climax if it clamps

In passion close to death.  You saw hair first

In gospel singing.  Later memory cramps

To nearly nothing next for decades.  Cursed

To vacuum* all other facts become

So negative that they are what the gods

Forget.  The gods obsession in its sum

Obliterates, a fate that has no odds.

  Your eyes made contact with high hands and hair.

    Events defy the later hope of prayer.

*The poet pronounces the full three syllables in this word.