self portrait w/ nude, on fire

and then late afternoon shadows and

the stuttering scratch of

leaves down forgotten streets 

the shadows of lovers, of

unwanted children and forsaken saints 

god and then no

god and then

all of the days i waste waiting to

                              see you again 

an empty room filled with ordinary ghosts and

no one says we have to be here but

no one gives us permission to leave 

this is called the art of standing still 

this is pollock in the

seconds before his death 

not acceptance but panic and

not understanding, not

ever

not ever

and i keep telling you this but

you still aren’t there