To Krista P. (dead of cystic fibrosis)

She is not running from December          She is a guest of August

Geese honk like childrens horns or economic cars        being a guest of children

And the economy, neither of which hell ever gets to understand


You see/ something about your disease made you beautiful/have you ever seen moonstone float to the surface of the epidermis?/ your mouth was like delicate red ropes through a tower  of perfect ashes/ not a long destiny

But a spark so perfect / I pray your memory into  sun

Bowl haircut bicycle pants barking like a dog through lecture/ that skin would make Vermeer laugh/ you’re a lantern fingernail luminous on Gods pinky/ you rush to the bathroom/ your lungs a fountain of sticky anti-youth/ never a complaint/ so brave

So beautiful slender coughing chameleon 21 gone and phosphorus velvet hands

If you had not been diseased you never would have been/how can I applaud suffering for its genius and its madness?

Like the human race I guess

I wanted to hold you while you died and tell you the little infarction of heart I put petal wise and unsoundly foolish

Near the grave whose coordinates
Blank me…