William Writes Off His Heart

in sonnet form

There is some joy in weeping. Desirous,
Powell’s sip of hemlock is resurfacing,
your stars are still burning above me.
Songs played into our mornings the way
I asked them to and you were so beautiful
I couldn’t do anything about it. The pools
of your back shone like crystals in the chalice
Guinevere held up to her beloved.
Her eyes fixed on his, the last look
of despair before the extinguishing.

Here is my redux: it is morning again.
you’re holding the back of his neck and you’re
not thinking of me. I can weep
and there is no other song than this.  

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