I tried to make friends with the autumn crows
who came to peck apart my rotting skin.
I tried to stanch the evening sky again.
Too late. Let light bleed out and decompose.
This wasn’t what I wanted after death.
The sound won’t leave me. Burn the children, burn
the books and sell the house, and help them learn
another way to finally lose their breath.
And this is where the sonnet would have turned.
Can’t leave this line. It keeps me locked away
to my last thoughts and words. The rhyme will stay
with everyone. It’s this moment that returned.