We all loved

Of course, we all loved her
and not only in an innocent way
She was sexy smart, fun to be around,
joyful, as pleasure is joyful, and even
when a tad sad she inspired happiness
She was our star, our celebrity,
our sweetest angelic spark

The artist, Myra, blew glass objects
and the glass she blew was decorative,
lightly colored shiny pastel curves—
glass vases and such that harmonized well
in understated rooms, that didn’t maybe
move you, didn’t show you anything
new or vibrant, deeply saddened or blue

We’re the witnesses who misunderstand
what we see, and it’s wasted on us this
subtle sublimity, with its subterranean
pull—How can we know it, love it, savor it
when even the most obtuse powerful
dictator can’t always have what he wants?
Said the sage “If you think there’s

time, think again, there’s not”
There was a single straight strand,
a vision, and where it began
didn’t foretell its end, as much
as it was about anticipation and
more than it was about gratification,
its evolution aided in the

grinding movements of land
This is no monument—
Let the bodies of the murderers
be dragged into oblivion and dust
because the restoration of our state
requires both time and wisdom—Please
don’t talk, stop lying, stop your yapping

The cacophonous stink of belching cars
going into the city daily shows how
much work will continue without you
The master wrote nothing—
There were no eyewitnesses and yet
his words, well, somebody’s words,
reverberated from him for centuries

When she draws the shadow of
his hand as it reaches towards us
it’s as though the dead still
live within some still bone of
truth, as though her oblong forehead
and receding hair would finally
speak the truth about death,

pitiless death, cosmic abstraction,
supernatural radiances, corporeal
beauty as indifferent to you, as her
old age is indifferent to us while we
flutter each night from our dreams
into non-existence like a narcotic that
lifts, dulls, inspires and confronts

I look at my arm and see a bruise
that comes from nowhere
Is this death’s terror?
Where your death is you are not
You are, instead, my enemy on
whom I project a sordid
scourge of guilt and self-hatred

-June 1, 2019-