The Edge of the Universe
Every photograph of you is the same,
stiff and unsmiling. Mute in my hand,
as I imagine you must still be.
Even then, you were turning away
a dark forest of shadow and branches
reaching toward no one.
It was where I left you,
at the edge of the universe.
That place where we wrongly say,
“You’re dead to me.” When the truth is
you were never alive.
It is the place where you left yourself.
Every photograph of you is the same,
stiff and unsmiling. Mute in my hand,
as I imagine you must still be.
Even then, you were turning away
a dark forest of shadow and branches
reaching toward no one.
It was where I left you,
at the edge of the universe.
That place where we wrongly say,
“You’re dead to me.” When the truth is
you were never alive.
It is the place where you left yourself.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson