On Grief

The garbage burglars are outside on the curb,
rifling through recycling and making enterprise of the corner.
Good for them: their Ford pick up is overburdened with cans
and the general meltable refuse of the wealth of the hollowed outs.

How does the face in the window pane know me?
I don’t, and in the grief and uncoming of dark,
imagine he gives the murk to the light
like soft death to life.

My gods are of chance; savage and romantic towering
manifestations of equally brow-knotting impossible equations–

hump backed specters of patented invention whose lanterns illuminate prophesy:
shake my eyes in rooms where my father is dying,
where I am,
and the nausea of the living fills me
to the point of intolerable uncoming
when all unseals all breathe softly,
lightly, wretched anatomy, lightly.

and this in the shadows:
catheter piss coming from blankets encrusted in nameless desperation–

while suddenly found on the roof
the inexplicable truth of the summer night time.


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