Avert your eyes

when they open the door 

enter

keep your arms to your side. 

keep your face clear.

keep silent. 

when you stand by his bed

don't ask what was done, why his teeth are blue, 

don't wonder where his blood went, 

why his cheeks look so defeated. 

stifle your cry 

when you look at his hands,

when you see your gold ring, 

just look once, look hard, 

then look away. 

don't take this day with you. 

leave it there. 

remember how it was to hold this man.

let that fall on you like snow

let it turn in you as winter. 

North

I always knew where to go 

and where I had to be.

I knew north, I knew 

north and north knew me. 

North was always waiting 

for my call, was glancing at the clock 

up on the wall.

North was always waiting,

always thinking, where 

where where could she be?

Was thinking she was due 

and I knew it too. 

I knew it too when 

it was time to go 

and I knew where to go 

and I knew what I knew 

was true.

No more of that now. 

no north I mean, 

no stalwart point of light 

to hold me fast,

no knowing that, 

no knowing all I knew.

But I do not travel blind now, 

I move from here to there. 

I know where to go 

and where I have to be. 

I know it all from memory. 

How I loved

I did not love him with the sureness, the trueness

of algebra.

I loved him the way the ocean loves the shore:

with swells backing and filling, 

reworking the sands, its segments, changing, 

the shapes, the temperature

by degrees 

with every tide. 

I loved him without planning how or when, 

love always circling like gulls, spreading 

whiteness and darkness.

I loved him without gypsy words, without 

the burst of a match. 

I loved him like a kite bobbing in the wind, 

like a whale floating up mouth open. 

I loved stumbling like a drunk.

Like waves blown from far away

in large breakers from distant winds. 

I loved like a wanderer who comes upon 

a redwood grove

and stops to hold the silence.

I loved simply that he was here. 

Sometimes

Sometimes a kick lights me up.

A flash bulb in the nerves.

Sometimes my body jolts from 

this being alone.

This freedom from you 

can make the hairs on my arms salute.

Freedom. 

Sometimes, it crackles. 

I'm sorry, darling.  It's only sometimes. 

Like today on that ferry boat.

Leaned hard against the helm. 

I was captain of the ship. 

The ocean parted. 

I felt kissable. 

But we aren't made to like alone.

Stranded on shore with birds.

Seeing faces in clouds.

Hearing voices in trees. 

Who wants to sleep alone?

Who wants to kiss one's own hand?

Not I.

Not even sometimes.

Don't argue with me

All the tears in China won't bring him back, 

all the oxlips in the dell 

can shed their blooms but

nothing can be done, 

We have no authority only 

dreams and drives 

pushing up from nothing 

and all begin to wither right away. 

Yes. Wither from the very start--

don't argue with me.

This long death starts with the first exhale.

Reincarnation never happens. 

Earthly things brought him to his knees. 

He was always drowsy after that; 

complained only once. 

It was when we saw the oxlip.

My low key guy of boyish wit 

who never hit a thing except piano keys, 

cried when he saw the color he will leave behind.

I saw a ray of light blaze from 

both his eyes the night he died 

and it was borne away with him

and his reincarnation keeps 

never coming.  

No other way

My giant has faded from my senses,

the sound of his music dims onshore

as my ship slips from its harbor.

The months have made quick work 

of all six feet four of him.

There is less and less.

I see right through him, 

an X-ray, curved ribs and behind them 

the hillside. 

I must not lose him like this. 

I must stay awake and think of him, 

his grin, the way he booms around the room.

I must say his name each day, 

his picture must hang in every room.

I must pull the hairs from his brush.

I must write about him every day. 

There is no other way.

Nothing like that

He doesn't take deep breaths,

does not shout,

nothing like that,

when angry, 

he walks away,

into a tower, 

bolts the door

for hours, days,

sometimes centuries.

I can hear Art Farmer, 

then Paul Desmond

and when I hear Jobim  

I know the door will open.

He will not look at me. 

He will only say, 

 I'm going to the store,

Do you need anything?

And I will answer,

Yes, I do need, 

I need some things.