Dirge on the subject of Harold
The wreckage is all agog tonight;

the paradise-children dream lightly
on the stern of a sinking ship,
and you and I become fantastical.

Destructive moonlight,

the slant, slant,
of chit chat,

or the metaphor of too much silence,

oh paradise

haunting dayglow on the horizon,
milky muddled,
the zen of regret,
riddle filled,
you see I have watched you catch the river fish with your off-colored teeth
I have watched you hunt

I have pretended that you could not hurt me,

I have run my fingers through your red hair,
I have arched my body beneath you,

I have told truths to liars, and lied about the truth,

I have sucked the marrow of paradise;

oh paradise,

oh delicate, new things,
the dirge,
the willow-bark zephyr baying at the moon like a hungry wolf,
our skeletal kindling,
the wreckage of all these wrongs,
taking the portraits from the walls but leaving the rusty nails
or the thumb-size holes visible across the landscape of the bedroom;

the landscape is transcontinental,
accidental anthropomorphic thievery,

all angles and ankles and
hip bones,

a bruise on my neck from where you kissed too long.

the boatman with his gold coins,
the wreckage beneath our feet,
the lace of us together

the webbed flesh of lovers,

the too-hot bedrooms, the wreckage
of night,

the wreckage

the broken paradise
doesn't beckon or pardon,
it merely laps the high tide falling from
our chins, it convalesces in the
crevices of the widening cracks
of the disillusionment of us, the
broken, dead things,

the children sleep on, their
eyelashes dew ridden, the
upper archives, an attic where
we seep into the pavement, you
and I two raging eclipses,

oh paradise

the slant of our actions,
the beautiful ways that we destroy each other,

all agog, or else
humid kiss, final throws
of you asleep beside me,

and when the music stopped
I shook you awake

the children were lulled into
their dream-fits by fairytales
about destruction, I their mother
did this to them, and you
their father reworked the wreckage
to better accommodate our shared traits
reflected with them,

our sons are wayward
like their father, they will
leave me one day, and I
will weep for them,

our daughters
forever enduring, their
hollow eyes haunt you
now that you are gone,

they look like me
and you will regret that

we will see each other in acquisition,
feel each other in doubt,
stumble through an awkward
conversation where dismissal and
convenient neglect run ramped
like too many remembrances;

I lock my pain behind my teeth,
in a tiny box I hide under my tongue,
it will dissolve one day,
it will kill me.

you whispered once,

oh paradise
the wreckage belongs to you now.