The kitchen sink,
speaking so quietly
in the corner,

may have been the creator of
the universe

dripping his voice out
of the faucet.

Only, no one needed
to be brought up out
of  Egypt,

so I lit another  cigarette.
             And,

God and I marked each
other on this point,

there doesn’t seem like
there’s much to do
between

life and death,
but

take the space
we are given.

She is gone.(Drip)
She is gone. (Drip)
She is gone.(Drip)

You talk too much,
I said.

The sink replied,
אֶהְיֶה אֲשֶׁר אֶהְיֶה

nobody sees how today’s yesterday rhymes with
the yesterdays of a brave or not so brave
Gilgamesh holding a plant/ fruit, something rather,
taken by the same
swimming, hungry, fruit tempting
*******
serpent or God-thing
always hungry for a piece of tail

and Gilgamesh, we use to sing your yarns in Uruk, but
no longer do we know your lovers name

so half the tale gets left out

was your life ever found out there,
in the wilderness?

or did you go out kicking, clapping,
nails six feet deep in the carpet,
screaming your ode to the kitchen door
and the lone flower blooming and
wilting, dead and gone, on the
other side?

Heart done with fingers in the window—
who created this?

I wonder, did you walk right from the past,
into this supermarket,
and draw unforgivingly on the glass
pane, by the bananas,  just
to leave your mark
knowing I would meet it
and dream of you?

Or did some lonely dreamer meet me in my same
eyes, about an hour ago, and wish on held hands
and smiles, thinking of times long past and
futures also

long past?

And living in this long-past of ours,
did this dreamer  write a symbol ode to all that is, was, and is now no more?

Thinking hot breath and finger marks conjured ghosts and Gods,
but hoping more for the second.

I have to die.
This is of no concern to the neighbors.

They will continue to drink their coffee and
read their papers in the art of not giving a ****.

If she was still here,
she might
reach
a long hand over
and
touch

me down to my grave—

cradle me and set me in the
crib of centuries &

years of us.