poem from a poor sleeping

Last night I dreamt that I could fly

or, rather, glide across the sky.

I also dreamt my mother died

and that I cried, I cried, I cried.

Nights, I Called Out to You, and Your Name to My Mouth Was Sweet

by Garth Greenwell

Nights, I Called Out to You, and Your Name to My Mouth Was Sweet

Mornings, you answered,
And made the sweetness of all that had been sweet to me ash.

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Jesus fucking Christ this is perfect.

Every time I think I'm giving up on poetry I find something that serves as the perfect example of all that I aspire to.