From the dead moths staccatoing
the sill – I count them still – now
at forty two and rising –
to the bra
black and ripped, on the floor,
beside the bed.
There was nature and there
was fun, this is art of the heart –
dead and gone, preserved, not for long.
I’ll miss you until the cows lay down
predicting rain,
after that, I’ll miss you again –
like trains should miss quaint drunks
on the line
but don’t.
I’ll miss you like a mole missing his
hole, flailing around
on hot concrete, blind, lost and useless.
I’ll miss you
until the pylons stop buzzing,
until the starlings fly when the electricity dies,
till blackout,
till infection,
till the end –
I’ll miss you
as well as I can.
