when Leonard Cohen died
i tried to write about it
couldn’t feel it.
trump’s elected the next day,
so there’s poetry in his leaving.
a fly landed on the shadow of his hand
on the page. i thought it was a sign
but nothing came of it, technically because
this is no poem, to pin him
remember him for. it’s trash
we’re done for
& nothing cares. the hum
stopped ages ago
but i was truly listening,
thinking: the night to me is so lovely
& there’s nothing i can say to prove it.