poets who can’t talk to save their lives so they write

No use telling 

        the dead what 

you’ve learned since 

 

they’ve learnt it too— 

 

how to go on 

        without you, the mercy 

of morning, or moving, 

 

        the light that persists 

even if. 

✶ 

Beauty is as beauty 

        does, my mother says, 

who is beautiful & speaks 

 

loud so she can be understood 

        unlike poets who can’t 

talk to save their lives 

 

so they write. 

✶ 

It’s like a language, 

        loss— 

can be 

        learned only 

by living—there— 

✶ 

What anchors us 

        to this thirst 

& earth, its threats 

 

& thinnesses— 

        its ways of waning 

& making the most of— 

 

of worse & much 

        worse—if not 

this light lifting 

 

up over the ridge 

 

[Kevin Young {1970- } 'Ledge', originally published in Poem-a-Day]