Fall dies and lets me know you’re just the breeze.
The wine is running out and I’m forced to see
I might have lived and died with you indeed.
Each flight I took was once for you and long.
If yours were death poems I was so blind
And Ginsberg read Whitman as Hafiz read
Saigyō in hysterics knowing one day
I would cry like a river through god’s hand
Because the only songs I needed were in your smartassed eyes.
And these days you’re somewhere away in a cloud
about to be rain drops falling everywhere but over me
Or playing games of high stakes dirt poker with the mycelia under
Silver Bow County Montana for old time’s sake.
But maybe you and your soul are spilt out on the kitchen floor
Of heaven avoiding the judicious mops of angels
Trying to soak you up forever forever.
And here I am with my heathen knees bruised praying because
This death of yours seems like a broken turnstile or a
12-hour layover in Minneapolis
That keeps us split in two until the sky above the sky goes bang! bang! again
And this whole spacetime thing starts over and we find each other back in
The tumbling asteroid fields shivering sans-planets—
O-your dented silica dust face beautiful!
The trip having been worth these billion trillion squillion nights
And cartwheeling Kalpas spent Fantasizing about kissing each other
Like falling comet on Chicxulub crater
Breathing in nothing but the dreams of fools and
Exhaling little bits of choked cosmos only—
Where we are both headed at some point if we just wait
for a while now at the train stations in each other’s minds
Darling.
Love,
Matthew
