#jameson fitzpatrick

When or if or ever
will he
turn his head to me?

Can he
be willed to, the way
I can wish ill on an enemy

and watch it strike? No, see
spite is so much
easier than love, heavy

but I can hold it,
more stone
than water, more why

than how. And how could I
call him
and by what name

to make him stumble
and slow?—
or better, prefer me

to the vanishing
point, horizon, color
which exists

only from a great distance
between
my voice and the song

he pursues. Oh
he grows old
ahead of me, he grows so

the same (refrain, refrain).
He does not turn
his head to me, he will not turn again.