Fountains spout in rain, splatter
in wind. If we had been

lovers, a bitterness would have prevailed
the way it has for all these others.

Might have been threats
left on answering machines:

“If you ever darken
my doorstep again.” Cruel

confessions: “I could see living in the City
but not with you.”

“She laughs more.”
“I don’t love you anymore.”

“I never loved you.”

“This is my O Lucky Man!
This is good-bye.”

Nothing can dismantle the purity
of a death that saves us.