Sunday, December 24, 2017

For the AIDS Dead by Frank Bidart


For the AIDS Dead
 
The plague that you have thus far survived.  They didn't.
Nothing that they did in bed that you didn't.
 
Writing a poem, I cleave to "you." You
means I, one, as well as the you
 
inside you constantly talk to. Without
justice or logic, without
 
sense, you survived.  They didn't.
Nothing that they did in bed that you didn't. 

 

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