Death hunts us with many weapons. One that takes our lives; one that pierces our souls; another that daily ages our cells. Often the most painful form of death is that poisoned arrow which enters our heart after an intense relationship. The poem below is actually an excerpt from a much longer poem written by one of profs in college. He asked us to critique it. I took the nine most pertinent lines and handed it back. When he returned my response, he told me it was mine. For many years I called it 'John's Poem', but now it is simply what it is:

untitled

we look for a way out now
the whole tree
gone to smoke and ash
night follows fire
unsure pleasures are in it
made love or new excuses
then pulled its roots
on a winter morning
her eyes and her breath