Later, Never-- written in the dark
solely by the interpersonal light of grammar and habit,
admittedly compromised by breaks the mind takes,
mine in this case.
Every time I've stopped to think with the pen above the page
like a worm without an apple, a truth
without a population or a long history
to settle all reciprocally, predicting
a future that will stay a step ahead of the predictors.
Though let's still have round suns
shining on the streets and fine tuned messages.
No enemies-- only death to read desires final.
Personification are preposterous.
Yes, people are real--
agreed.
I know the given body goes cold at the end.
It's written into the pen stroke or body or language uses
for the duration.
Before teaching me accurate social location,
you died, and as a final gesture,
undid the distinction between now and then.
In response, I touched the cold forehead, the old skin.
Another lesson I was also absent at,
out, abstracted into day-lit grammar.
Floating, writing in the stolen boat,
it's now too late to turn around.