In Memoriam

Report of Health

I

I am alone tonight.

The wrong I have done you

sits like a sore beneath my thumb,

burns like a boil on my heart's left side.

I am unwell.

My viscera, long clenched in love of you,

have undergone a detested relaxation.

There is, within, a ghostly maze

of phantom tubes and nodules where

those citizens, our passions, flit; and here,

like sunlight passing from a pattern of streets,

I feel your bright love leaving.

II

Another night. Today I am told,

dear friend, by another,

you seem happy and well.

Nothing could hurt me more.

How dare you be happy, you,

shaped so precisely for me,

my cup and my mirror -

how dare you disdain to betray,

by some disarray of your hair,

my being torn from you?

I would rather believe

that you knew your friend would come to me,

and so seemed well -"not a hair/out of place" -

like an actress blindly hurling a pose

into the fascinated darkness.

As for me, you are still the eyes of the air.

I travel from point to point in your presence.

Each unattended gesture hopes to catch your eye.

III

I may not write again. My voice

goes nowhere. Dear friend,

don't let me heal. Don't

worry, I am well.

I am happy

to dwell in a world whose Hell I will:

the doorway hints at your ghost

and a tiger pounces on my heart;

the lilac bush is a devil

inviting me into your hair.