Hope halving, each
having a little home
within that home, &
discovery of not
coming up by itself.
As much as you are
him, I am your dead
boyfriend. The long
-ing want of glance
gone straight through
my face. Inverted,
does too. You glance
back, you glance
away from my face
when irises uncorner.
You follow me from
the train, for a time,
& are erecter all
the while, thinking
of dead lover, of
now-dead lover. &
move over one step
in the gutter. Traffic
lane and then other
but the night empty
through plastered
brick wall and into
cemetery where he
is not, but's nearer
my house. And then
even farther, the
north part of town.
The new and ever
growing tower that
is rounded.
