I don’t want to be the cardinal
on which the revolution hangs,
that brightens the winter tree.
I want sufficient sun
to watch shadows change.
I want to turn away from death
and live it another way,
aloft, my guts
metaphorizing pleasure
as I bake my grief above.
Tired oven mind.
The calrods swerve
a dismal sun. Do not put my name
in the essay on the cult of ends.
I will miss our words when we’re gone.