i intend to make the most of this heartbreak
and to see your shadowed face slipping by in
every man who walks briskly through the rain
and to see you in every false memory and to see you
laying naked next to me with our hands between the
cigarette smoke and then later the door cutting open
into the dust and the children screaming as they ran
into your arms and myself rising into the fiction
you,
loosening your
black
tie
and me coming up to you for the metropolitan wetness
of your fingers and the coffee-dusted slow kisses
still half aware of grand literature and dead artists
the sex life of the century resurrected inside us
and the way i make you to lie to me, slow and careful
do you see
how unfinished
we are?
the last pavilion 