His blood's in my tea this Whitsun afternoon,
such that I can't take the comfort from my mug;
he's in the blunted ring of the stirring spoon...
just the particular calls him to.
Goddamn. Sip sip, chug chug.
Back in bed, to wait out my amertume,
his phrases break in with insidious sense
while tedious arguments flit in from other rooms:
It's my fault my mind is his demesne.
He knew awe within life's barrenness,
the impuissance of our impassioned attempts
to be understood-and to understand,
to be, and not, an inconsequential man...
it curls in my mouth like mustard gas.
I should rise, to rinse my mug. This too shall pass.
