“Violence and death

are a huge challenge

to meaning,”

said the acclaimed poet who,

when twelve, accidentally

shot his kid brother

to death

while hunting

and the man’s mind

ran to his father

stepping in front of a train

when the man

was a teen,

then his wife’s veins 

exploding in her brain

while she sat in vain

on the

commode

thinking that would fix it all

before she dropped to the floor,

never to get up,

silence, slamming, screaming, slow

motion,

distance, wandering,

groping,

clawing,

and then after months

and months hoping

and life happening

and then (Was it a year or two?)

actually

realizing that life was happening

and then, impossibly,

once again, caring

and seeing the

colors.