When I am dead, my dearest,
sing the blues.
Break open a scorching blue rainbow of violent roses.
Throw your arms around skyscrapers filled with colorful suicides.
Reach in vain
for the branches of cold flame that reduce me to star dust
in a twinkling.
I'll see you in the shadows of planes passing over. Like a cloud,
your amnesia will run everywhere,
especially where I won't be again.
I'll feel the rain come on like subways rumbling. Yeah,
sing the blues. I'll hear you knocking
the dog who wouldn't go away
just because one night you let him stay.
I'll hold my breath as you drag my memory
into the back seat of a taxicab at midnight
and down an octave or two,
bringing it all back home
and hitting the bridge triste and largo.
Iowa City, Iowa
The Cream City Review, Stirring
The Man from U.N.C.L.E.: The Terra Incognita Affair (a novella in production)
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