Accepting His Leaving Is My Poetry

I am cold-eyed now.

that is
how I am
when poetry is
but the acceptance
that he leaves and the
world is world with him
without him in my vision
every time in the hard tramp
of hallway the shattered stone in
tiling there was sun and he
found himself haloed by
it or then I found it.
that is the
appearance of poetry
around me when the words
do not need to be thought of and
there is enough leaving in life to explain
and still lay, side by side with photographs
that were not taken. it is being drunk
at three am when it is raining and
I do not know it. seeing him in
the reflection of cars
passing where
the people
inside
are

discussing the merits of growing old with one another.

poetry is best cold-eyed