I am of a mind to forget you.

If only to show

that, even in America,

greater poetries exist.

Though I may need to brandy

my life with

brilliant impiety.

Naturally transpiring from young to youthly,

back and forth,

in ceaseless changing,

retaining bright eyes wide to sovereign prayer

too holy for belief.

An aged mystery by which the poetic lies unattainable

regardless of honest desire,

parched temptation

or favored wish.

This is, as it was in youth, where what is felt is either naïve

or a fearful

response to sin,

after which only the pen

can see the answer through the rust.


Am I not eternal?

Eternity is made

to be washed away.

Sharpening my teeth no longer,

I smolder in bare confession,


my flesh to this Earth was not

my last undoing.



- D. Garcia-Wahl