I would rather not go back to the stained.
It is more agreeable if passed and left

At the market yesterday I saw Mark
suddenly thin, his pants too loose.
Today Dan’s widow dress
hung from a spur of thorns
the gallery silent. 

Each darkening sooner than the last
these autumn days goad me back.
But this time
I want it to be with water
that sounds the aria of falling,
its spilling back

I would like it to be a clear day
when t-shirts cover and expose us 
leaving only tattooed peonies.
The air should move and bring with it
the smell of him and of the loft.
I insist on food because wasting was his
last condition. 

I do not forget the mouth
and would have the thick touch 
of his
and lay him down on sponge grey moss
beside the stream
and let its silver gestures glide
against his hand. 

He would have irises, too.
 

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