Slain and unknown. Neither gathered up by forgetfulness
nor dispersed by memory…they're forgotten
in winter grass on the road that runs between
two long tales, one of heroics, the other of suffering.
'I'm the victim here.'
'No, only I am the victim.'
No one says to a poet: 'One victim doesn't kill another.
In the story there's a killer and a victim.'
Once they were young, shaking snow from
the sacred cypress of Christ and playing
with small angels -