what poem could i possibly write after your death
the calendar says 2000 as the millennium gets out of bed
while language lingers over Biscayne Bay and winks
words are nowhere
we try to mop up the dog’s mess of forlorn language, a spook
instead the light balks at precision
laughs in prismatic grandeur in its loopy inaccuracy
shade instead of language sits, waves toss up their disguise
i listen for the word that is not the word
the going goes on
the chirping in the palmetto, the jet skis purr and snarl
you are not here nor there, still
a quarter of a century later
where are the words now, in a rucksage or on a wall
when I never get it right
the grammar of grief, a small sound sending
a poem’s fit into flight
once someone got it exact
[4’33]
ivory, pedal and string inundulate
I have not, yet walked out the door toward you
where you are not, waiting
then as if a small tickle she comes into me running over the sea
do I remain here or leave
