Word count: 328
Paragraphs: 27
It Is Only
for Allen Ginsberg
It is only when I speak to you that I am afraid for my life.
It is only now that I understand the symbolism of your death.
It is only a lonely stroll with a tramp on a tarp.
It is only a fishing hook caught in my cheek.
It is only the flesh torn off from my fingers.
It is only an augmented chord that troubles us so.
It Is only a beginning, and then nothing.
It is only a cloud which resembles bloated laughter.
It is only a dissolving centipede.
It is only a few raindrops on a blue orchid.
It is only the bluff of power that frightens us.
It is only a war for that power dominated by the interests of the wealthy.
It is only an ending to a dream you’d have preferred.
It is only a decapitated soldier.
It is only a tax return.
It is only my artificial father.
It is only an unrecognizable truth.
It is only this great height that allows the ocean to seem frozen.
It is only my ribcage hurtling through the troposphere.
It is only now that I forgive you for refusing me.
It is only now that I forgive myself for hearing the wrong story.
It is only now that I dream of another life.
It is only now that these dreams pile up before me.
Edmund Berrigan
Edmund Berrigan is the author of More Gone (City Lights, 2019). He is co-editor with Anselm Berrigan, Alice Notley, and Nick Sturm of Get the Money (Collected Prose 1961-1983) by Ted Berrigan (City Lights, 2022).