this mummifying is so glorious

give me the bandages to bury his face,

his closing caricature and the,

the one I desired to decorate

in seconds we slipped to the hours

holding jokes with steady smirks.

Sometimes I doubt we were sober

perchance drunk on endorphins,

fleeting his sorrow in airless punches,

ironic the satire we spoke fell flat,

spiked us stoned and still walking square.

Still talking sparing the misery

for separate minutes, the,

the ones no one wants to tick against

the clock-face and create as a feeling.

 

But what if that’s the way I covered him?

Forgetting his underneath.

 

 

 

For Dan

[2020]