UNTITLED POEM

there is much that he might have said
& much that he may have done
but it's a little too late to tell.

though the sun was setting later & later
it will still be dark & there is
surely nothing that anyone can do about that
now.

ruminations, yes, but he gets up,
puts on his scarf and hat. puts on those black gloves &
goes to a funeral.

the sun may set, the moon will die
the stars will fade away.
the onset of winter, the dying-time
December, leaves all disappear
the elms are bleeding black & it is getting
very very cold indeed.

the priest leaves. he doubts that she would have wanted
one at all, but conventions must be respected,
or so he thinks.

an english summer rain weeps gently,
alone. reconstruct desire, or forgiveness---
silent on the hill by the tree at the end of the world
i love you is just a euphimism & its beauty
will always last for awhile.

three flowers, white-and-purple
stained red once upon an early March.
then, just then, there was only a hint of gray
a promise of ash & dust,
only a hint & nothing more.