suicide poetry

arched the flood
some of the hurts you have cured
look out upon the stars, my love
just as my fingers on these keys
if i were very sure
night is dark, and the winter winds
i shake my hair in the wind of morning
and so it goes
i am weary of being bitter and weary of being wise
in the cloud-gray mornings
often i think of the beautiful town
god
she might have known it in the earlier spring