Wednesday, June 4, 2014

1

Four months ago, in early afternoon, it was very cold.
Yellow sun flooded the white room.

Today it rains, rains, rains.
The garden grows in your signature yellow.

I'm wearing yellow today - yellow

4 death
4 happiness
4 you
4 the root, earth.

You were white and yellow - my bright, gentle king -
jaundiced, bruised, anemic, white in light, the cleanest man in the house,
surrounded by love.

You were the purity of last things, death's wisdom.

This yellowed view (I've colored it so) of you remains-
those half closed eyes,
white (never blue again),
and slightly open lips.

Your used body, sighed,
under cotton the color of marigold.

You died.


2

You're resting.

You're whittled bone ash
out
out
out of a body
into a black box
on a white dresser.

You're waiting.

The white room is waiting.

I change the flowers -
chrysanthemum
lily
snowdrop
ornamental spurge
muguet
jasmine.


3

Parting you - a recipe

Take you
(yellow, black and white) cats
open boxes
mix bone
throw together
flow together

into 2 oceans,
water of rivers, seas
This is mixed water you
missing parts of you
giving parts of you
returning parts of you
reserving parts of you.

4

You wanted this -
to be a little everywhere
and not at all.

You said love's ashes
should be separated,
anxiety-free.

You're
the man
asking oceans to divide you
so no shore
or other shore
can interfere with your

Liberation.