Thursday, November 19, 2009

In the Dark

And the black car comes again
slammed door & wailing

in the dark, at the window
at the edge, in the street
by design or sorrow
in the act
of crying by fear, by love
by her own
hand, against the last wall

with their lost names
sweet against the dark, warm

with my last breath
with secrets
in pain in longing relieved
holding on letting go
in the arms of strangers
in known beds
with your body near me


They all die. Are you used to it?
You tell me the pretty names
of illnesses, speaking Latin
against the coming dark your warm hands

testing the pulse. Spring was a long time
coming, shouldering her way
through all those snowed valleys
My love

the irises are once again
open, holding their hieroglyphic sweetness
They last a while, rain on my mouth
Touch me again


In the dark, in terror, in silence
Reading this last poem hearing
the broken cry : towhee or black
raven Laughing with your heart
stopped With your hand open
Looking for someone Crossing
a street the room a bed Going
somewhere else

with you always before me

(no, of course this one never saw print elsewhere. I was pondering the various ways one dies.)


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