Issue 70, Summer 1977
They called me to ask me if I know who you are.
But how can I? They have laid you
face downward against the coffin floor.
I have to turn you over if I am to find out.
Also you stink. I have to turn away.
But still I reach for you.
Your head slips sideways.
Your left eye hangs by a thread.
Your mouth crumbles around your teeth.
All your soft stuff melting away.
Your bones that you have hidden from me
coming into view. Now I am seeing
what you have been hiding from both of us.
You probably are the one with the typed name and address
at the house where no one is living.
You probably are the one neither of us is sure of.
But shall I say This is the right one? The wrong one?
You with your rotting cavernous face
what terrible thing has happened between us?
Did you discover what love is
leaving me to discover?