a life

he didn’t die a thousand times; he only did it once

he probably died a thousand ways, and on a dozen fronts

his encounters smiled, his eyes were bold, scarce fear was in his soul

but pain and days were long to bear and grave-weighted was the toll

you do not go where others won’t and miss those things they dreadt

and so because of all of that you wear some of their debt

at times you might feel darkly sure they owe some things to you

but who can make another wing flap forth without its cue?

and who can make a balloon fill up, when balloons are hearts with shame

And who can change the days you’ve seen, the deeds, the thoughts, your name?

Beauty comes and buoys you up, until a dark storm plummets

and beats your hide, your mind, your breath far more than soldier’s stomach

and in the end you are not the sword that sticks in Jonathan’s breast

you are all the days you tried and died, the worst, the bland, the best!