A Valediction Forbidding Mourning

 My swirling wants.
 Your frozen lips.

The grammar turned and attacked me.

Themes, written under duress.

Emptiness of the notations.


They gave me a drug that slowed the healing of wounds.


I want you to see this before I leave:
the experience of repetition as death
the failure of criticism to locate the pain
the poster in the bus that said:
my bleeding is under control

A red plant in a cemetary of plastic wreaths.


A last attempt: the language is a dialect called metaphor.

These images go unglossed: hair, glacier, flashlight.

When I think of a landscape I am thinking of a time.

When I talk of taking a trip I mean forever.

I could say: those mountains have a meaning
but further than that I could not say.


To do something very common, in my own way.

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