epitaph

in stone, the water would
run, through
the tip and fall,

the rain would carve
your name

into the world, and
seep,

to the ground. in
words,

caught, I will not
stay you,

though, you fade,
live briefly,

as you go, to raise
the grass.

stage

When--the sawdust falls
through the sun, and the
radio plays--this song,
in particular--

and the wood hangs against
the wall, the office in the loft,
is dark, and slats

of metal over the loading dock,
are raised, the screws sink,
into the pine, imprecisely--

the stage is still, but won't be
in a few days, and the dirt
clings to my hands which are
sinew--

--with lifting, the strange slats
stacked on the platform over
the scroll-saw, and the welder,
and steels lies, traced in paint,
and dust, on the concrete--

--the leftover scenery, cut and
shortened, repainted--
will make a new world, for
an evening--beyond the loading

dock, the lilac are blooming,
but in here, I will cut a beak,
into plywood,

tomorrow it will break your
heart, today
the curtain rustles, slowly,
in the heat

xxxxxviii.

--tonight, the wind blows
and it rests in the hollows, and it sneaks
behind the buildings--and,
tonight--

tears all that was--
before, and all that would have
been--across my bones,
their hollows whistle--tonight,

I loose my hold, and I let it
carry--there are worse things
than not to have been--carry,
all the things I have held
tightly--

take them from me, where--
I don't mind, take them to
nowhere in particular, or

lose them in the gutters,
and the planters and beneath
the tracks--

and they go,
and they flee, and they
scatter--

and they go, I am
glad