I Mourn the Little Deaths

Poem about little things lost

I Mourn the Little Deaths


I mourn the little deaths...
Of the wet wool, sweat sock scent,
The stomach swoosh,
Cheek-heat of young love,
The dread-free, early summer,
Frigid water plunges,
The supplicant etiquette
Of uncontested faith,
And the doubtless receipt
Of ever after and forever -
Of the thin caramelized edges of naiveté
Which eventually
Corner-curl, peel and flake away
To reveal
The tender pulp
Of alone.