Sorrow Like A Bear

I will not let myself
die in the fall, will
not lie down in the beige
leaves and eat frost
will light my shirt
on fire first, will eat
squirrels if I must,
will tear off the roof
and expose myself
to the eye of the moon.
the sorrow itself
like a bear
will drag me through
winter. it will rearrange me
so that I will not
fit into my own coffin.
my grief will be
that preposterous.
let the dead men among
you laugh at my
fingernails. my madness
is green and thawed.
the sweeter
this struggle the
more fertile the
spring.