Dedication

My life is an open wound
that has never healed.
Why did the knife cut so deep?
The blood is still moist,
glistening in the ambient air.
Why is help so dutiful?

Everyone is too busy
for anyone to care.
Old age is about loss
upon loss,
upon loss,
upon loss,
upon loss,
until one is exposed –
vulnerable to the appropriate disaster.
Yet the embodied soul persists,
in seeking experience, in seeking
love

Oh my beloved the slightest
memory of you is a sunrise
in my mind sealing, all wounds.

to my wife and daughters

contra et propter