A Second Letter to Jane

Jane,

They say, “There’s no end to things in the heart”
and I haven’t forgotten about you.
Just like they remember fifth of November,
I recall the beginning of fall.
Your shades in the park,
and my ringing guitar,
and an apparition of Sister Rosetta.
That day was one bookend that paired with another
with the pages in between abridging
a star-crossed love, fruitless, imperfect,
necessary, conceited, concerted.

You moved on and another girl came,
much, much better than you.
Sweetness, I call her
while writing of her in songs.
Sweet, she was, like Black Velvet,
as she worked her enchantments,
and I died, and I died, and I died.

Yes, I had learned nothing
even though you made an impression.
I thought you wouldn’t mind to know.
As you prolong your lifestyle,
remember me in the sky,
as a constellation,
or misdirection,
anything, really,
please try:

Remember those who die, and die,
and die, to be it all the time.

As you live your days
like those who survive
war crimes and lies and lies and disease,
try to do right:
be what you were in my mind;
be everything and it all the time.

Love,

Reese (who loves you, and loves her,
departed,
much, much better than you.)

(From April 2015)

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