the only room i had for you
was one i called my own.

no other space was comfortable,
and in it things were known.

the way you touched and spoke
and bled,

the wretched dreams of people dead,

the beautiful and ugly greens,

the blacks and grays and purple means,

a narrator of cratered parts

and centerfolds instead of hearts…

in these i slept for many years,
illogically alone.



gentility refused to come.
i burned the sashes one by one,

and watched the windows slowly groaning,
melt to empty bones.

collected shells were not enough
to rid the thoughts of home,

and so i put away your shirts,
the fabric crisp and numb.



i see among your other worlds
a lather thick as bread,

your pearls a leaden gift to them
that whisk you on ahead.

it may have been a little place,

a closet house in any case,

but this was all i had to give,
however dumb in tone.