leonard cohen by Mark Prisco




when Leonard Cohen died

i tried to write about it

& couldn’t,


couldn’t feel it.




trump’s elected the next day,

so there’s poetry in his leaving.



a fly landed on the shadow of his hand

on the page. i thought it was a sign

but nothing came of it, technically because

this is no poem, to pin him

down to,

remember him for. it’s trash

to say


we’re done for

& nothing cares. the hum

stopped ages ago

but i was truly listening,

thinking: the night to me is so lovely

& there’s nothing i can say to prove it.

Originally posted http://poetry.org.nz/leonard-cohen/

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