This one is haunting, for me, in its calm turned desperation.
by (U.S. Poet Laureate) Kay Ryan
All but saintsand hermits
mean to paint
toward an exit
leaving apeasant ocean
of azure or jonquil
at the doorsill.
But sometimessomething happens:
a minor dislocation
by which the doors
to the left a little
Only toward eveningand from the
of the houses
of the painters
comes a chorusof individual keening
as of kenneled dogssomeone is mistreating.
None of our planning, none of the doctor's lame assurances, none of their insistence that I was overreacting, none of their delayed interventions, could interfere with the tiny propulsions away from Zachary's beautiful future. Those incremental shifts pushed his brain to the point of hemorrhage. Cornered him, dead.