If I die tonight, will we
become lovers by tomorrow
evening? Civil twilight to entwine
two severed spirits. Counting
finally done. To drink or not, new
wine or old—it won’t matter. That age gap
sewn up once and for all. If
I make it till morning, I will continue
to keep a record
of what might have been.
Not Necrophilia
No more the Police’s “Don’t Stand
So Close to Me.” This AA Bondy song, “Mercy
Wheel,” will be our new
our song. Your obituary
says to donate to the American
Heart Association in lieu of flowers—but
you loved them.
Is it because you died
of a broken heart?
Is the reference to the American
Lung Association because the loss
left you unable to breathe?
Past lovers are just that—
in the past. To make love
in a Victorian novel does not require
removing clothes. Consummation
and closure are two different things
you forgot to explain—and now you’re gone.
Dead Man’s Hand
Then he drew a cloud
to hold all the love
letters I wrote
to all those objects
of my obsession. Before
digital mapping the whereabouts
of my heart, there was the weather
and pleas for stamps.
Passion and Closure
You said we need a story
too—all of us do. If only you knew
the truth. You are a sequel
to the one who died
nine years ago. Call me
Lolita once upon a time.
So busy recreating the narrative,
basic needs for water, nutrients, physical
touch become distorted. All narrators
are unreliable—he got killed
off too soon. Do you get the point—
there isn’t one. And I may not mark
my time so fiercely
around you. Each death smacks
of it, then The End
gets misplaced.
Trapezoidal
Back then you said I made you long
for your high school days. I wouldn’t go
back there. Yet I yearn
to make you yearn again. But
too much has come to pass—
including your demise.
Generation Logic
You began the baby
boom—I ended it. JFK shot
your senior year—Lennon
mine. I will read too much
into this symmetry. We look
for patterns in everything,
those of us who have been addicted
to numbers (and such). Chaos
or infinity, we really don’t get to choose.
Furl
Still unsettled hot asphalt
footprints track onto the sidewalk. Haunted
house promotions begin
in August. She looks for verbena along the wrong
boulevard. Tree lawns
for the weary of new
words. One bruise refuses
to blossom, another won’t
fade away. A Friday afternoon—it’s not too late
to retrace her steps. Jazz
trombonist turned portrait photographer—he’s still
the rapist to her.
These Clouds Don’t Hold Rain
Songs in the sky, white space isn’t white
space anymore. Pauses come loaded
with unbroken, relentless light. A blank
canvas, flat stone plateau—no more
void. Even these empty cans
get filled with purpose
and smoke detector malfunction trickling
out to wake the dead. I see nowhere left to fall
into a truly uninterrupted sleep.
A Shattered Green
Pot decorates the curb. She doesn’t understand
your words. Not used to you
yet—but she says
she loves you. Better
that way. A voice that smokes down
the river around
Mississippi. Floods
or droughts, you’ll let the intro carry you
through block party
barricades—access is yours
in any language. She’ll be brave
with you to sweep it away.
The Face I Can’t Erase
I’ve wanted to take back
so much more than
the night.
Not in the mood
for making up
prayers. Mnemonic
games go only so far. Silent
letters tickle ankles,
stretch walks beyond midnight
mile markers. This is personal—
trombones kill
the recitation calm.
