Drafts by the One Who Has Not Died

Who did not when you did,
Did not when it was time,
Could not, not quite, but tried.

There was you, in a bed,
A last poem in your ear,
To far from home to hear.

Then there was the porch rail,
The right height, the sweet spot,
Low to scale, high to fly.

The black cliff, stars just out,
That could not pledge a clean
Cease, just the breaks. Stepped back.

The ice pond, stars just gone.
That one, that one should have,
But its numbed grip proved weak.

When did the rough drafts start?
Gone so long you can’t say;
You can’t feign shade, poor wraith.