twenty-one years ago

the man’s body 
became a 
corpse.

sentence by sentence,

line by line,

hundreds of poems 
lost

to the waste bins of editors

and abysmal post offices.

no carbon copies.

gone forever.

he would type it up again

and again

and again

until it lost all sentiment.

twenty-one years ago

he pushed us all away,

and still we run.
and still we hunt.