Let the bells drown, let the rain down.
Don’t love the bougainvillea ever again,
its vibrant profusion’s a net of thrones.
Don’t love the wine anymore, its mineral tints
and autumn breeze coming through an open door
ruffling pages of a book not worth finishing.
Don’t love the Kandinsky print
that once seemed a parade of jubilant,
geometric souls or the neighbor’s sad-eyed
dog who’d hold your hand loosely in her jaws
and ask nothing else. To be asked nothing else
is to be asked too much. Not one more
volt of touch, not another wet glance above
the wobbling candles. No more opera
or freak folk, enough of Monk’s ruby lurch
into elegance, enough of deer leaping
ahead of the car on the ridge, no more
owls or howling in the wood, enough of these stars.
It’s possible to grow sick even of forgiveness
so please don’t tell me you’ll understand
if I let you. Rather the letter never
sent, never written, rather let the bells
down, the hours hollow. It’s cool here
by the water as dark comes on, twisting
beneath the surface invisible forms
while bats zig and zag, snagging the smallest
denizens of the air. Sweetheart, already
I’m almost not anywhere.