​
a single long shadow,
​reminder of his defiant quiet
and a face like stubbled November corn fields
it’s all that remains? a few lines of verse 
and some letters…

one woman claimed she’d miss him
the one who left empty lipstick-rimmed cognac glasses
on the night stand, and never cleaned a skillet, 
not once
did they acknowledge their approaching separation
the hope of heaven looked Kandinsky
rancio, heady, unearthly, unspeakable

during daytime they always thought together
but at night, they dreamed apart 
their children radiated in another universe  
as his contracted into particles and waves 
and self-censored darkness

gravity of tone, the final threadbare force
has, in the end, 
limits— 
beyond which even words lose their attraction
stretched letters scatter into scribble
ink evaporates, the dent of its imprint
flattens into the final illiterate horizon
“Hold on, hold on,” she said,
“I’m coming, to read for you.”