I lean on my relatively robust right shoulder 
since you left our daily workshop for bad metaphors 
and orthodox tea
to follow herring-bone stitches in the air 
and embroider a false sky 
above me, sunless-moonless, with your absence. 
Since then, I have leaned on my right foot
because my left trouser pocket grips 
my mobile phone, 
just as an attic grips the empty sky.

My mobile phone is not yet my paradise; it is a caretaker 
of all Wallace Stevens poems in PDF, 
pirated like an ancient Moor drowned in search 
of a missing key 
to an iron suitcase of rock salt and broken rubies. 
It is as heavy as a morning dream
about a baron’s last will. I cannot decipher it alone.
Please don’t define what is wrong 
and what is always right 
after we left 
in different directions for different greens. Unaccompanied. 
The sun and the moon, diligent service providers 
since the birth of the earth,
already know us for being too picky
in closeness 
like Seneca and Epicurus. Two old flowers. 

We differ, we dither, we grow and shrink 
together; we cannot be sober 
like two retired city court judges comparing pensions 
and appetites 
on all days and nights with heaven’s drink 
in both hands before 
the final sabbatical from hell’s lemonade 
and the gossips.