What Is Made Better With Weeping Poem by gregory collins

What is made better with weeping. Not fruit,
or flower, or the earliest of birds that sing

there flows the Seine under the Mirabeau bridge;
Where kissing surpasses all expressing. Not

searching my eyes with your hand, or touching
me once i am left behind. But maybe, what is

made better with weeping, is a star hid in the
branches above. The fact that beauty should

be blind, and forgotten. Beauty just seems to me,
to be drinking the same coctail that she presses

into my hand again and again. Beauty always
slashing and eating with not a glove or a handkerchief

in sight. But maybe, that is just my memory. Maybe
she is the rivers and waves i am smashed against.

Maybe the Milky Way has written this poem, and i am
in the footpath of oblivion forever. Where all on sides,

years have the lucky choice to lie open to me: Those
far reaches of your life that complain against what you

want: Complain against my soul that shakes the house
with restraints, of what is remembered forever with farewell.