Look out the foggy part of the window to watch a house burn.

You hear only what isn’t left

(You hear only the birds when they run out of life)

Space begins to stutter—I’ve rediscovered my courtyards and a funeral is held for a could have been.
You talk only in vignettes, 
your voice resting between blue poison skies and lilac lovers
(lovers haunted by the articles of faith acquired in childhood).

We steal stories from the fog:
This is my Virgin This is my Wh**e.
(We have lost the poetic sense of being). 

There are four men and they all wear jeans. You have canned their language and presented it at the reception. Dvorak plays.

No one wants to miss the springtime. This is the Grass Moon: Ash trees are late in blooming and are mistaken to be dead.
The funeral for an almost (all the blood in the trash can is mine).
Birds steal their dreams from those eyes; steal stories from the fog.
Your voice, plastic now, echoes in my courtyards. Tangy and purple in the poison sun.

Slip away, alive this time 
(You hear only the birds when they have run out of life).