Wednesday, August 13, 2008



Dying hurts,

My brother  says.


It's not at all

What I imagined.


Clouds and trumpets.

Being at peace.  All that.


It's okay.  Sometimes

it's sunny, it's Paris.


Sometimes it's not.

He worries for his mother,


For a delicate ex-lover.

To Will his sofa to.


And tax returns.

Loose ends.


He chants it-

Ends, Loose Ends.


His pursuit has

Always been the truth.


His occupation,






None of this

Conforms to that.


And he gets

A little miffed

At bland pasta

And cheap flowers

Dying inside

A Catholic Hospital.

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