when a writer dies
maybe the silence grows
just that bit longer
or darkness fattens
one globule more
as it turns in its
sleep, eyes closed
yet tearing
up in happiness
moist smile lifting
just enough to show
just a crack,
of sharky teeth
i dream of that some
of the time: think
each corpse, mentor
or friend, is a tick
or etch of black
analog ink
on the deadpan clock’s
face. i scent flowers
in funerals, in lovers’
hands haunted by
a hoped-for future
what came for them
comes for us now:
shuffle of feet on
wooden floor, step by
step throwing up tiny
gray clouds of crypt dust
no body no heart
wants to go—but must
as the son, the daughter
mother, wife: apples
red washington
granny green, sphere
of fuji: all are eyes
now
all are writing
workshops
all are breasts
of lesbians
summer-warm
to the touch
to open the mind,
pry the purple
labial banana heart,
with fingers young
in merest memory
this, the last kick
from the last horse
and many things
yet to unsay, release
as a breath, as falling
leaf: down, down,
down
the abyss, may we
fall with a kiss.
