shaves you， changes your blood-stained sheets.  A blonde towel

    is tucked up under your chin to support your jaw¹.  This is for your wife

    who will sit with you by the crimson² lampshade—one hand over the other.

    In her frayed³ cardigan sweater， in her gray corduroy pants， she kisses

    you on the brow when she comes in， then stands awhile

    over your bedrail looking into your far eyes that no longer recognize，

    no longer want anything to do with this brown world.

    Death takes our breath away； endless.  Without cause.

    Incredible the way the dead demonstrate how powerful they are，

    their future contained within an expressionless brow，

    superior even to the wildest sorrow.  To laying on of hands， to libations.

    Forget them. Forget this moment in desperate November， one person

    speaking to another.  What brought the two of you to this moment

    is what counts.  Carry a candle to the cold balcony and watch the sputtering⁴

    flame go out， into the windlessness that includes the evening star.