Recondite maudite guest residency I hoist my verve to a stick No I don’t, I am apparently hazardous To your health & averse to lamplit chatter Where writing you a goodbye poem comes easily As foretelling the future of the dead Or dreaming a medium aborted retriever I’ll recover that poem later & expunge All reference to you, from it. It’s one of my Poems, so it should be easy to do But why is the poem lyric, I ask you, since You are not here to answer & So I am talking to myself, which is one Of the answers I am not talking to history economics philosophy Or “human” “events” I am inhuman actually A skein of blood & urgent nerve I am not talking to the department, either Of english or defense Both of which now seem suddenly similar As a camera is limited by its point of view & It is the duty of poems, sometimes, to accrue Else to cut out, bloodlessly Who now by absence are, what– nothing? As I am too, to you And so we shall be nothings twin Nothings of invisible smoke Two ghosts caught in each other’s hair Ephemerally frantic as Mel Gibson’s career
