I'm well past the age
where Chris made wine
where Celan wrote poems
Is it pass prime to nothingness
to loneliness where
grief doesn't know where
to go and Paul's blood
deserts you?
I'm here with Claudia & Cookie
where solitude defines
where shadows take form
Is it pass coupling years
into 3, 5, and 7?
"Yes, they're dead;
died in a car crash--
sleep shapes, lying
in slit-arteries, past recognition"
I'm well at the water where
ice crystals make form where
bloodlines begin to blur