REGRETS
Regrets are pointless—
Which doesn’t mean
They don’t have an edge
That’s mortally keen—
That’ll halve your brain
And cleave your heart
And tease your days
And dreams apart—
Until at length
You play two roles,
Like water poured
To fill two holes—
And neither self
Quite stuffs your skin:
The almost-am
Or the might-have-been.
—from Rattle #86, Winter 2024
__________
Edmund Jorgensen: “I write poetry because order is a protest against despair.”
