Your Sundays

Another Sunday!
You disliked Sundays: all that
organ music on

the BBC. Bed-
ridden, you’d listen to your
books, turning over

to avoid bedsores.
Is There A Sabbath for Thought?
The peace that passes . . .

I’d find you asleep
— perhaps this was the idea —
the voice running on.

You hated contrived
endings. I’d like to think you
would approve this one.

Your Byline

Your end – true words – and
beginning – belief in truth –
made you a witness.

End and beginning
in excess of duration:
I say your end and

beginning survive
your fate. Overlooking your
chic glasses your eyes

fill and you choke up:
“The poisoned well of city
government is now

off-limits. I can’t
go on.” Your masters belong
in hell, you heaven.

Take THAT, Mr. Death!

People like details
even in death poems, but
death strips the details

from every mor-
tal thing. So you make things up.
The alternative

is to go deeper
into the perplexity
that she existed

at all, beside you,
in the darkened car, lips locked,
eyes closed, hands busy.

Mask

Why can’t I shake this
image: your alabaster
face, at the corner

of your mouth a rub-
y drop? Is it a sign? You
are nowhere in it.

Sign of my weakness,
the strength of death, which strength you
had just overcome.

The Undergoing

After weeks of smoke
from wildfires in the Gorge, rain
and now crystalline

air. Snow in the Cas-
cades. Familiar Mt. Hood.
I keep seeing your

face, hearing you call —
just kids in the street, car lights
on the wall at night.

You’ve changed utterly
and not at all. Brightness falls
from the thinning trees.

Letting Go

If I abandon
myself to poetics, it’s
not to forget you.

Poetics reveals
coming to be, just as you
did when you danced for

me in the kitchen,
hoping to teach me something
about letting go.

Between the Cracks

Ceci misses you.
She snuggles against the piles
of books that rise from

the floor in your ab-
sense. This is how we live now.
She may wonder where

you’ve gone. Between you
and me her whole life happens.
Between you and me

not much happens now.
Do I glimpse between the cracks
the sparkling flowing

ground, the origin
of the play of shadows that
animates this life?