1.
It
is 9:28am on a Thursday, the morning before solstice. Light
is
whistling past my throat, a breath
commensurate
to torn paper, ghosts.
I
drew an eagle, naked; drew saltwater bath; I drew
your
sullen red sun, the one
that
would not wither. Earlier today,
our
preschooler drew
a
poop; because, as she said,
she
likes to draw poop. This is for you,
she
added, her two eyes
square
against mine.
2.
Accounts
vary, as they should. What is this half-truth:
Bay
Area tenement windows,
a
poet’s theatre,
an
avatar, perhaps. Gutter boys and rainbows, hard-
checks,
crosses; the terrestrial mechanics
of
religion. Tomorrow night, I find out
what
some of the poets from Toronto are doing
these
days. I know
you
would have loved that: in spite of everything,
a
noise in the head. For now,
I
look up this angled street contorted,
slippery.
A rain, sets.
3.
As
newspapers contend: an accidental princess
is
not the same
as
royal assent. Boaty McBoatface, who reveals new depths
to
rising oceans.
An
email, around the sale of your archives: “A boon
for
two aging bohemians
that
our papers have brought us more money
then
we’ve ever made in all
our
careers put together.” I am low fancy,
squared.
What we lose, we lose. Your
unexpected
death. Too soon. We lose our way.
4.
This
email might come to you
as
a surprise. An innocence, or lack thereof,
is
never to be trifled with. Utterly constructed,
mirrors
and cameras mere templates for love poems
that
have yet
to
be written. We learn our names
from
our mouths. Tell me, something. Anything.
The
news that, for some, bone spurs sprout like horns
at
the back of the skull, resulting, possibly,
from
the repeated use of hand-held devices: cellphones,
blackberries.
Hardwired,
altered.
The results are in.
1 comment:
Superb & a wonderful elegy for Kevin
Well done! 👍
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