by Lee Stern

What I remember are the losses that were given to me
after they had been scrutinized for their furious depth.
What I remember is the way I tried to look at them
first by holding my hands in front of my face
and then by sinking to my knees
and pretending that everyone else was striking out
for a new territory that I wouldn’t be able to name.
What I remember are the losses that should have had ribbons on
        them
or maybe little bells that I was able to tune
when I came back from a long needed vacation;
when I came back from seeking justice for the people
into whose eyes I peered at the push of my lightning
and at the plebian cost of the metal I named
for the discrepancy- of the ages that died in my heart.

LEE STERN lives in Los Angeles. Not much to brag about. Likes dogs. Maybe about 130 published poems. Many on the internet. Tries to write one a day. Adores the music of G. F. Handel.