dust settled in the closets

every morning, it has hurt

the sunlight, the breeze
a chatter of bruising noise
the opening of the eyes
resentment, and expectation

the smell of today
the stench of yesterday
the faint trace of tomorrow
swallowing seconds

every morning, since he left
it has hurt

his face, half-remembered
his words, half-understood
his goodbyes, half-….
a moment’s consciousness

every morning, it is sorrow
how all things alive
could start and discontinue
how all things wild
could be quite, but not quite

every morning, since he left,
it has stayed

the abandoned side of his bed
his uncleared desk
the unseemly shelves of his books
his unfolded shirts
and his folded glasses

minute, but needle-like
prickling, prickling, prickling
every morning
every mourning

merged

though men be Greek, of ocean eyes
a dashing prince, a brave new knight
of lands and lords, of halted words
of vein-coiled arms, and lustful swords
though men be vain, of polish shoes
a head’s pomade, and midnight truce
of nude delight and dusty crowns
of fools’ device, to his renown

few can claim this fellow’s heart
of thorns and torn, strong of songs
few can pierce the mellow parts
of boy and girl, in one belong