JOHNMICHAEL SIMON POETRY

all that remains
a room, clothes strewn
a magazine open at
a half read article about dieting
underclothes thrown in a basket
still fragrant from your soil and sweat
no note
no epitaph
only the faintest echo
of your daily discordance
lingering in the space between
your exercise bicycle and the Discman
from which muffled pulsings of
an aerobic routine
still agitate the air

 

We made love
and fought
wrote poetry to each other
and argued
spread snapshots of our incompatibilities
on the kilim in front of the fireplace
and despaired of linking fire and cloud
as soundlessly as we linked
arms and legs
clasped in impossible quietness

 

I cannot understand
why the waves took you
and whipped you away,

plowed into your soul
slammed your music
rattling in shards on the rocks
all I feel is the guilt
of that final argument
hanging in the air like a thunder cloud
the words plunging like bayonet blades
deep into the heart
of the matter and the slam of the door
still vibrating in its frame

 

Now all the issues still unresolved
so pointless in the blank finality
of grief and the gray searing rain
that slashes to the horizon
and beyond
to some satin white room where perhaps
you are still pedaling a fury
and arguing with the angels