You know the broken history of things,
the alchemy of stones, a world masked
in the blind light of God.
To dust it — not often enough. To stare at it — too often.
To never open it anymore. Keep his ashes hidden.
There must be a Russian word to describe what has happened
between us, like ostyt, which can be used
for a cup of tea that is too hot, but after you walk to the next room,
and return, it is too cool
Lost my soul in the shuffle.
Got a self instead.
Not a fair deal, not even-Steven,
What killed her was the talk, the empty eyes,
which made her long for the one person in ten thousand
who could say her name, who could take her home,
giving her a place between Auden and Apollinaire
At the bubbles rising in the pitcher
Of beer to explain consciousness
Which was blurred by that time
When you have a dog, you get to participate in another creature’s being, a creature who wants to be with you, a human being.
So here I’ve gone and reframed your painting, the one of the street with its tilted telephone poles, the street that led me into sleep so often now bordered by an eggplant purple, very trendy and advised by the decorator to pick up the purples and greens of other pieces in my room…
And when two people have loved each other
see how it is like a
scar between their bodies,
stronger, darker, and proud