Oh, if I could but be 
as unfeeling as the stones 
that stare back at me 
as my eyes look down on Earth's bones. 
Instead, I bow my head in grief, 
put hours and hours into 
poems that bring no relief, 
or simply cry for you. 
And why can't I think 
like a rock, not at all? 
Let philosophers laugh and wink, 
but intelligence is my fall. 
No, I must be plagued by the thought 
of you and sadness; 
every look at you is caught 
in pain-filled madness. 
How lucky each pebble 
is, in permanent death. 
Wish I didn't have to trouble 
myself with another breath. 

January 29, 1985