talking once,
we glid by the reservoir—and two coyotes
pittered by with wide, competent eyes,
then sunk into the caliginous firs
like sugar in a vat of joe.
we grew close in darkness,
that’s why I hated your service in the D street Episcopal—
which all and every remember with great fondness
because the day was bright as hell,
and the photographs poxing the bulletin board
showed you polishing that soda-fountain grin
at ten, eighteen, and twenty-five.
the grin was a fib, I know,
because the man I knew
was voluptuous, scrappy,
and manly as hell,
nothing like the withered invertebrate I kissed
in the toothpaste-scent of the ICU,
you who all your life
reeked of cattle and rum.
I hate the nurse and mortician.
I should have done all their jobs.
swabbed myself
the grass stains from your knees
and sculptured with sweet-scented tonic your
final rambunctious hairs,
buried you when I wanted
and no moment earlier.
