In The Garden Living an RPG Life

(For Roachie - Mae V. Cowdery)

A brown aesthete writhes under the glareof historical texts.

No Poe.  No Keats.  No Cullen or du Bois.

Only soaring into paths not travelled across galaxies

Light years to go before sleep

What did it matter that Death kept its eyes on my skin

its hands on my heart.

You had gone first.

I was an unknown shadow on your horizon.

Only now do our separate events approach each other.