It's easy for me now, in the distortion of memory,
to imagine that
the rambling wild corners in the side yard of
our dirty past apartment keep
the secret of eventuality.

eventuality is the stone that marks the mass grave,
foreseen;

the shatter-splatter scene of an obscene crash
where we finally meet the wall at which
we careen;

where our weak gesture of defiance against infinity
leaves red flesh pieces that drip and sink in
sulking and final failure.

the smell of the soil that drank the flesh right off our bones.
the bones the soil buries.
the soil that they marry.


the sick and visceral cycle that carries up from the down rain
whatever of us can never die and
we grow again.

we grow alone in the sun.
our lives begun as the ivy and the roses that lean over and
bow under the heaviness
as they fatten on the moss
that covers the stone of
eventuality.

life let us live and helped us out to die
but never taught us anything if you think about it
really

i miss cleaning our apartment and your excited appreciation.

i miss being connected to you by the filthy joy of
our stubborn reality.

eventually I will love you in such a way that does not
bind me to your memory.