Poem of the day via Poem.com Newsletter

 October 30, 2021Lines for John Berryman on the Bus from Little MogadishuBenjamin GucciardiYou jumped from the bridge a few blocks from here,
onto the west bank of the Mississippi.

It was a Friday morning in January,
icicles must have jeweled the trusses—
how bright they shine today.

But I’m not writing to describe the city.
I need to ask what it takes to point your toes
and slice through mantle,

to crawl around the groans
of a winter flume.

John, this is not despair, not even boredom—

but the grind of air brakes, Drake crooning
through my neighbor’s earbuds, a diesel engine
down Washington Avenue,

they all mask stone’s tectonic lust.

Should I confess, I was happy once?

Ten months chasing weasels from olive groves
in Liguria.

Do fields in the afterlife need tending,

I think of you in that sunken garden, shears
in your pocket,

as you pour a shot into your coffee
and watch bees weave

in and out of the buckbrush,
lingering on the broad
whiskey petals of your breath.from the book WEST PORTAL University of Utah PressREAD ABOUT TODAY’S POEM