With every apology, however small, comes

that very real past not even language can
shrug off. Maybe resulted from remodeling

after sorrow they say, & even that maybe
its own utterance, own regret. Every sorry

a slope steeper than any roofline allows,
every sky tree-lined to windbreak

the voweled field, to O—, to open out
into curbside & guttering where we shoulder

against every narrowing, to widen, to turn
this sadness a reservoir that might last & last

after. That might wash & be washed into.
That might soak & through. That sorry

in one part of speech now rare except as
merged with senses, the only sorry we know.   

 

 

 

 

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