A song for John Lennon
The odd knowledge of rooms
filled with values still wrapped,
dust-heavy, bought on an impulse,
forgotten. Possessing non-possessions.
Possessed as in, my heart is a bank
vault. My thumb is a book. My
tongue is an antique table, double stained.
Next door, downstairs, everywhere
are the rooms, are the treasures.
Summation. Summation. Summation.
And how can you deny the impulse
to others? Unable to own you,
they bought all your music.
Unable to own you, you
bought things you would
have loved. When you died
they grieved then celebrated.
The relief of no longer having
Augur of Familial Scenes
Eros in Footnote
On January 1
The Sad Sentence
SON OF A FATHER
BEYOND THIS POINT ARE MONSTERS
Excerpt from The Fayum Portraits