The Origin of Sorrow

He liked to begin things in February
reflections of an urban world
on the backs of letters.

He wanted happiness without the hole in it
without an overuse of apologies without
a road to some place else.

He lost himself before he lost her
when the weather started to shift
lingering at the cusp of September.

Approaching life like he was
carrying a carton of kimonos
his hands turn to stone

spurious and sacrificial
his mouth an orchard of lead
words are burning

ashes taste like oblivion
ampoules of dusk
burned down to thorns.

Laura LeHew