In The Year Of The Goat Poem by For Matilde

I hope you never feel collected or clung to
left imprisoned at the end of a long road
asleep beneath the cars
there are so many young things
in the world
they wear their coats like stars
for your value is diminished
when only counted
your sky is endless
pulls at my eyelids
I have no scabbard now
for impossible joy
no place in the desert
I no longer bleed
I (who is this pestilential I?) never intended other
than you to flourish somewhere
to add rays to the sun
to gaze at gulls flying north
to Lavra where I asked you once
for a cigarette
and on the journey home
you told me you had been to Barbados
and nobody noticed what was starting
you put walnuts in your salad, you said
I do not stroke now your face
or feel myself suspended
naked before your eyes
Yet the years roll on and
we skip lunch and eternity
always trying to not ask for more
of the same in case we suffer
too much by its absence
Now I see
once was more than enough
my heart is now rested with that
there is peace now
days left that matter
in the year of the Goat