the idle mountain of laundry
  in the corner smelt of saltine sweat
a shadow deliriously starved
   on the bedraggled linoleum

simmer of onions, the feral trample
    on iron, there is a proper pang
  in admittedly blurting out
       Never
   Again
        Are
We
      To
   Be

   falling into the well of the ear
   to surge anew, a slovenly love,
overcast of the body now gone
    and only fulgent lamp-like brightness
   unmoving in its resort
       tells me something hazed
and invisible enough to be seen
   yet painstakingly entering are these
reminders of the remainders - the only
   resolute and reachable object

  is this photograph of your
  once bright smile
  illuminating all mirrors
  dizzy with the image of myself,
   alone and bedimmed