Her diagnosis was sudden, obscene
And, most said, surprising,
Evoking familiar and foreign responses
Absence of Mind
Mysteriously appearing doorways
Dreams of salvation in Brooklyn
And a deep sense of loss
Before the final act unfolds.
Palliative: what a grotesque word,
Proving Stevens wrong.
Poetry is not the supreme fiction;
Life is —
Life is the all-encompassing myth
Both of the imagination
And the abasement of the imagination.
The universe and its sense of wonder
Must be off balance
To choose one so lovely as Deyann
To be the subject of its mockery.
She glows, she nurtures,
But mostly, she inspires us
To be better than we are.
Not all of us became her disciples
But most of us did. I did.
Various body elements arrange
Their schedule of betrayal
While the heart edits juvenile aesthetics
And revels in martyrdom,
But then a prognosis is shared
And nets descend on imaginary pursuits
While breathing becomes an act of guilt.