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.
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.
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.
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,
altered. The results are in.