One must imagine him happy.
Leave it to him to stir the air,
slake his thirst with the dew from leaves,
eat roots, shit where deer were their delicate
hoof prints. He sleeps once clouds shut out
In the sun and rain and winter furies
he remembers, love was all that changed him.
Hitching to town, walking most of the way,
in the internet coffee shops
on napkins, sketching words, hammering sound
until music took shape. He read
aloud the only truly serious
philosophical problem, how to die
but by your own hand. The ideal
must be drained until it was real,
the blood in the rain your own blood
when she called from the other side,
She hoped you would keep your promise and die
once she left you with the city's
levees burst asunder from hurricanes.
That was the city she loved like it was
(9-10 April 2014)
copyright 2014 by Floyce Alexander