unanchored

by something or the other,
probably just the something
or the other of life
and all its tsunami afterwashes
the smell of rotting seaweed
lingering in the air
the sulphurous sadness of
who I was then
well then, I read a lot of Plath
without a guide or even prescription
(who lets you loose on Plath
without a dosage measure?)
you always had the measure of your madness,
did you not, did you not you did not did you
In hindsight, I see you
had not been instructed
as I had by my senior school debating coach that
“if you’ve got to call someone a Nazi,
you’re clutching at straws”
and in hindsight
I admit that you did it with a
cool, rhythmic panache
beyond my every imagining
outside of my every skills
and though, now that
I’m older and softer
fatter round the edges of my adolescent rage
I wonder if I’ll ever even
think with your incisions or
feel with your storm seething rage
I doubt I will detach
from all my calmness and my trend bursting
happiness but still,
I have outlived you