“I’m Sorry, Nightingale”

& I’m sorry in May
& I’m sorry for the daffodils
my matted hair; my pleated skirt
& I’m sorry for the idea of it
& I’m sorry for your everlasting love
& I’m sorry for being a bank robber,
a hairdresser; a scoundrel and a thief
& I’m sorry for horses in September
their breathes of rose smoke,
& I’m sorry for the bridge, for folded hands
for table manners,
it’s like the disease is beneath you
it’s like we’re walking a plank
to a madhouse
& I’m sorry turtle doves
& I’m sorry for the roasted apples,
the chipped teeth, the carousel evenings
even if a magician wears white gloves
even if thou
should tear away from sorrow
in loving memory.