Have I been faithless to your memory, Who died before our beards had come full in? We who’d buzzed our hair short in the yard, And punched each other’s arms until they bruised? Our falling out was from a dozen things. You mocked me secretly to the wrong friend, I thought myself the better of the pair, And on. So, years went by until the call In which somebody told me you were sick, And wished for visitors. I never went. We buried you behind the white board church. Your mother too, a few years afterward. There was a rusting fence. A walnut tree. There was you underground, and there was me. This poem appears concurrently in Paul’s new collection from Wiseblood Books, The Locust Years.
There's nothing Artificial about our Intelligence