Sunday, June 4, 2017

you should encourage yourself, yourself
restrain yourself, yourself
self-protected
live happily


You have four boxes of her - white ash, black earth. You've emptied one box.
The others are her, to hers, out there, incommunicado.
You're protected, split, spilt, done.

One thought ashes would be scattered together. Not so.

I dusted a plastic bag of you over the Seine, sent your last ash in water over yellow flowers in Valencia.

Most of you in your home, though, in my studio between the cats.

That's how death really is.