after the wake we went back to his place. it felt a little wrong to eat a dead man’s leftovers but we were hungry. aren’t funerals supposed to have sandwiches? someone left the corridor light on. for safety, maybe, not that there was much to steal. a box of eggs months out of date, and butter. we ate the eggs hardboiled, peeling the hot shells hungrily over the sink. it’s what he would have wanted.

we slept in his bed that night. the bedclothes were pristine but the room smelled of damp. in the dark a faint glow came from the light-up fishtank, which made bathetic silhouettes of its inhabitants. the smaller of the pair meandered up and down, picking up bits of gravel when it got to the bottom. occasionally when it drifted up again it would peck at its larger companion, who bobbed slowly at the surface. once this source of food ran out it would surely die too. this was only fair, we agreed. no one should be outlived by their guppies.

i don’t know what it’s about any more,
i’ve been reading a lot of whitman lately
and now no one’s making any sense-
you, least of all you,
your long lost america.
why don’t you take another drag,
your mouth curling carmine because
you know how it tastes.
it is all superficial, it is all,
but when you’re smoking in the
hole-punched moonlight, who can
say what is real? lay down,
into the patient sea
lay down, because
this is no time for arms,
just a happy go-between
and who can say,
truthfully say that
this is not the only way to be.

03.11

in the room where the women
with painted faces howl
their lullaby to the moon;
voices crack for their vanities;
eyes so weary of the day.
the glasses yet fill themselves
with timely drips, earthly ticks
through the dusty mahogany,
well-faded architecture and
smoke-laden air,
around a georgian bed,
where dietrich had lain, and
garbo’s thin fingers still clasp
cold to its frame,
creaking, under the strains
of black and white memory-
they were all so beautiful.

12.10