Is an ever-widening grid Of mutable lines,

Over which dreams Hopscotch.

[1]
Last night you were
stunned
dumb
by the face of a woman
sitting next to you
in a humid room.

And             your hot breath
of desire was a summer wind,
sirocco, knocking the door
of your mind off its hinges.
What to do in face of this?
[2]
Don the scabbard.
Heft the sword.
Put on chain mail
of words.
Ride into a lighted space.
Kneel down in front of
whatever is burning there:
an altar of fire. A ruby dark
sacrificial stone. A muse.
Undress. Bucknaked,
Spill your guts out.




My Poems

Today I learnt that Coda, that evocative word I often used around you

Really means tail. So then let this tail be Vaporous like the slip-

Stream of a jet that Carried me away From you to forever.

I can still read you, However, in the objects We let stand for signifiers

In this city which I still Inhabit. Here we began The poem for which this

One will be another coda. Take this statue, Valentine. It was one of the first lines

We came to simultaneously, Sweet even after these years. Boredom, gall & the betrayal

Came later along with Everything else. Ending was Easy, for by then I had learned

How to amputate, how to turn Off a faulty lamp in my eye. Forgetting then is what remains. So towards that this coda.