We carry our desire to visit the river in our heads

Although we only occasionally make the effort needed to see it, that winding mud flat just there, really, adjacent to us.

We decide our feet don’t need to dip in the current yet, we can wait.

As much as we talk about things we should do

Mostly we are distracted.


The elegance assigned to love is rarely ascribed to death

The stately garden on some expansive estate in the hills

A secret meeting place for lovers

The hum of time, place, and people

At just the right moment

Does not visit a deathbed.


But they are the same

Beyond the messiness



Missed expectations

The mottled purple flesh

Of an argument or gasping breaths to stay alive.


Yes, they are the same

Beyond the lover’s glance



True compassion

The twinkle in an eye

Inviting the whole world in


All poems are about love, in the same way they are all about death


2 thoughts on “All”

    1. That is a good reminder Carl, I haven’t read any E.D. in a long while

      I liked your self-portrait, too. I’ve never understood how artists get good at those, it seems like it’d be a real challenge to lay yourself bare.

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