Afterword

And when the sky was tinsel
on the Christmas trees,
I made an angel of myself
and hung from an icicle
choking. Since you went off
the sun is black sackcloth.

Everything was religious
then. Even our walk
by factories and riverbeds
produced the kingdom of heaven
with you its hot and tender king
with me adoring or loving.

Now black winds blow
and take away my breath.
Again the night is dying on my lips.
If only I told you before:
without you I feel
I’m skating past innumerable monuments:

no words,
no facts, no laws to stop my fall.