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 the fifth of November,
I recall the beginning of fall.
Your shades in the park,
my ringing guitar,
and an apparition of Sister Rosetta.
That was one bookend that paired with the other
with the pages in between abridging
a star-crossed love, fruitless, imperfect,
necessary, conceited, concerted.

You went and she came,
much better than you.
Sweetness, I call her in song.
Sweet, she was, like Black Velvet,
as she worked her enchantments
and I died, and I died, and I died.

Yes, I learned nothing
though you made an impression.
I thought you wouldn’t mind to know.
As you prolong the cross-thing,
that coveted cross-thing,
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 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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