“dead, if I will end it,” I wrote
some eighteen years ago,
“sand, desert sand, in Long Beach,
has introduced us, held
us, kept us together so
long that if it ends, it will not.
to die is not the question, we are
zeroed on the same target.
“tracing the surface . . .
the blue eyes, the slender body,”
the body you now have stifled,
all that remains–a heavy urn.
what power has despair
to kill the body but not the spirit,
an odor of medicine or
you left me twice, my love,
twice bereft of spirit.
–from Moonman: New and Selected Poems
(World Parade Press, 2012)