I’m dying to weep for Francis Sweeney,
dead in his eighties, a little too young
for me, I’m hoping for a longer stint
on earth; lot’s to do ‘fore the last dog’s hung.
It’s a life of oglemoon and sunsquint
into the dark finis―
manufacturing that aesthetic thrill,
so long as it doesn’t pay you dim sum
at all. It’s only ripe as freedom,
a door you open into a deep hill.
A drop in the salmon ladder really;
what do you reckon in earthly years?
O, rare fertile roe in my wake when I rowed
the fishful of dreams unweepable tears
to your little son over the charred road,
which looms ungenteely.
Just beyond where the voltage sags the clay,
someone holds a picture of your mother.
―This is all that’s left, they say. But smother
any concern, for you are well on your way.
At my deposition, Fran, you sported
a bow tie! Some legal types, suing for you.
I never did learn how it all turned out.
We went on to live as if this life were new;
I put the melancholy ash to rout
but it merely loitered
between our plots of brain material.
There must have been a hole in your fabric
the shape of his last moments, a rubric
I repeat, now that you’re ethereal.
My elegy for the elder binding
tie makes glaring the strangeness of my truth,
a thing received of each sole emptiness.
My breath and selfish ways have gone aloof,
so must it be, the very thing you bless―
This is the last finding.
Somewhere in a library, bowdlerized,
because they’re each one’s untouchable quinx,
are books printed in invisible inks,
weightless tomes, imperfectly realized.
Somehow this has to do with Solipsism
because the very Greeks of knowledge light
up like little planets going round me
when I catch them in my sundance flashfright.
Which is to cry “I’m buried here, Sweeney,
under a head schism."
I can wait with dignity forever
if it means the non-believer suffers
grace as it pours it’s hail on strange, neverto know for certain if it will snuff hers.