Can we speak of these certain vacant spaces
in my abandoned bedroom where the moon dwells
and shuttered creatures search their teeth
for a bloom of flavor and sun.

I'm surrounded by prosaic twilights--tenantless places--
where plaster perfumed by dormant fire
gapes with cavities and empty mouths
that seek him with their tongues.

Where darkness crawls on poppy seeds
on moths and reeds and shoes
to reach me in my consternation
now that his name has fled my lungs.


Today I sewed his note to my breast pocket
but it grew crescent roots like fingernails
and murmured that we were too young.

Your words
don't billow or burst or charge or spill
from your lips

They drip
slow and burning and heavy with color
like candle wax.

like a   c o s m i c  crush
the sadness sweeps me            
the resonance            
           that does not come
     your  nihilism
in my knowing