/it cant


be said


living, I cant  imagine you dying.


.


the window looked west
 later, a dust, a skiff- light march snow. suburbs
 with an elevator, the lake, a bank of indian 
land.


"they want  a road."

.

want   a road

into these words, thots barely 
to notice the nurse pleasant, caring and human in the seeming 
cold millenial politic vs this kind of care

you dripping into a bag - bladder pain 
pressure, tv up to yr right - nonsense to waste what little time

our small talk must contain

what can i say: without cliche. I 
swear beneath my breath - angered by a finality 
undescribed,

ourselves, I think later, today, two weeks ahead in life after 
you died, not that death means exit from time: it is 
time, - not a vale, but a folding in space without wind/air 
when the last instant is a burst as if the beginning of the world itself now 
reversed and only of itself, 
as fact in all its puzzlement.

how to go on 
to form resolve and be of this body about 
to leave

.

"I'm taking this razor back"

the one I use
to shave you, thinking I'm this close ( tho once we hugged
in a parking lot / later a gravesight & you winced at my move to
intimacy; therefore, distance & my fear, as they warned, of all