After Your Death
Never thought we’d get there: you, no instrument for
the aging: you, nothing but time-
less: so, what did your body speak from?
When I was a dragon, you were there.
When I was an instrument with vampiric eyebrows,
you had not forgotten me.
Now, you join. And what: I do not know what for
but only simple.
It could take a year of ordinary grief.
The making of the soup, the overhanging sky:
then I go along because I think it is good
but never to rationalize the grief:
the slipping cape falls off my costume.
I put your picture in my frame and hang you up.
In a quarter of a century, I’ll
be closer to you, and
I’ll grow into my age with style
but today, I never thought we’d get to the end of you:
all left was your watch and wallet, that little blanket.
It seems that time could catch us all at nonce—
the cover thrown over, nakedness lost.
The last thing I had to give you was some knowledge
that gets past mirrors, something like love
thrown past the ellipse into spheres.
The Last Edge
Someone holds the final part,
makes believe in God or the way a hand has been held.
They say love is a start,
something that jumps right into the way.
The way you are remembered is the first place
where you found what you thought you needed, and
sooner or later, the glass will fall in.
I could help you through the round window,
but only if you read what is prose.
Then again, there is no other language.
But I could translate what you
forgot to talk about, but then, why would
you forget to talk? It’s the concept, ain’t it?
And there never really was a knight.
Something that jumps right into the way is what
the criminal believes in.
But this is not about where you once were,
in the dusk of that country where no one lives.