last version of "afterward,"

afterward, 

You reflect on every poem you have ever written

from the perspective of someone who has seen the future

and cannot return.

You feel like a betrayer to be a poet in mourning.
You say, "I’m sorry, dead friend,
that my pain from losing you is being used:
Scrapped for pieces, for my art."
You hold them close and whisper,
"I’m sorry.
But it’s the only way."

And so, your pained finger bones
try to trace out words
that have already been spilled
onto the concrete,
but now,
the words get
                        stuck.