Blessed are they that mourn

Not without struggle--
the mosquito hum in ear;
doesn't she look amiss, they'll say
when the wind catches my hair
and doesn't return it.

A poet should see differently--
I still see the contents of mirror,
fresh flab on bone
strangling any hope of summer wear.

Tennyson doesn't read to me,
nor any other lover--
I press words with single tongue,
sifting through pages as a solitary sieve.