In memory of David Foster Wallace (1962–2008)
You lit blackest tunnels—
searing shame; soaring
ecstasy in empathy.
Absorbing your familiar,
I reeled like one who’s just seen God
in the dishwater, keep scrubbing.
Your words in packets crackle;
in volumes, crystalline.
You didn’t give me will to live
or any other platitude,
but you knocked out
the lovingest of bridges—
sacred way forward,
in the end, in your stead.
--me
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