self-portrait with 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