by Charles Perkins

Slow, unobserved,
unceasing your blood ran.

I waited years for you
to bleed where you were

unknown; to know.
I wished by accident.

I did not stop
your death on my day.

Your skin—Sorry,

I have to—was pale as snow.
But, maybe

that line is not so bad,
if I mean sleet, if I mean

dangerous and frozen rain.

I did not bring you—
like your God took you

from the Earth—closer to me.
I only dreamed

by accident. If only
I could ever bring you

here again and leave you.
Know I

would, and know
I am truly ashamed.