- untitled seems apropos -

i will remember your small room
the feel of you
the light in the window
your records
your books
our morning coffee
our noons our nights
our bodies spilled together
sleeping
the tiny flowing currents
immediate & forever
your leg my leg
your arm my arm
your smile and the warmth
of you
who made me laugh
again.

in the last hours of him who lies untended
on a cold field at night, & sees the hard bright stars
above his upturned face, & says aloud ‘how strange … my life is ended.’—
if in the past he loved great music much, & knew it well,
let not his lapsing mind be teased by well-beloved but ill- remembered bars —
let the full symphony across the blood-soaked field
by him be heard, most pure in every part,
the lonely horror of whose painful death is thus repealed,
who dies with quiet tears upon his upturned face, making to glow w/ softness
the hard stars.