Going Out

At seventy, it’s
always evening
(C. Wright).
Such strong lines come to

mind now only to
flame out, per Paradiso,

of being being
the root of universal
justice. I bag her

cosmetics — lotions,
nail polish — for the bin. How
splendid she looked

as we left for the
evening, ornament and
order in her wake.


Yes an argument
with myself, not that we had
no arguments, we

loved to argue, love
being an argument with
our nothingness. Now,

love, you reappear
to me and keep me honest.
Being as nothing

is all we share now.
Nothing to stop you, or me,
going our own ways.

Oh but it is hard,
even with a new haircut,
to face the living.

The Wood Spoon

You introduced me
to your narrow bed before
you let me join you

in the kitchen. You
knew the mysteries of both
to perfection, but

by the time we’d met
happy seriousness came
from the pots and pans,

the bitten wood spoon
that I hold now in hopeless
fond recognition.


O the long wasting
away, and love annealed to
duty: it’s over,

over and done with,
over as in all over,
when love resurges

in your glance, your voice,
clear, unspeakably lucid
in death as in life.

Love’s promise breaking
out all over: love will start
over regardless.

The Separation

Surprised by your death,
yes, by your new address, yes,
but more surprised, yes,

that you knew how to
die. My mistake was to sep-
arate you from your

body. It was you.
You let it go ahead with
the separation.

Her Perfumes

Been through some changes,
Oh yes been through some changes
in this floating world.

Nothing dulls the raz-
or teeth of necessity
(Death) in this floating

world. Laceration
of the heart. The beloved
flames out, oh flickers

on the things we shared —
how we loved this floating world.
Her treasured perfumes.

Your Eclipse

of the sun behind the moon,
filmy sheen of fire

crowning the disk of
darkness: people want to see
it, just to see it.

This is their only
chance and it is dangerous.
Looking your dear one

in the face, behold
the eclipse of your earthly
self — just to see it.