I went down to Missolonihgi
with my oldest friend—this was a long time ago—
and we visited Byron’s house,
which is the color of biscuits
and smaller and shabbier than I imagined it would be,
and I thought of the way he let himself die,
how he just gave in to all the misery
he had caused himself
and so many of those who had loved him,
and it was meaningless
to me I was agitated,
falling out of love with my friend
who was my lover
and the lover of the woman who had left me
the year before. We stopped at a restaurant on the highway
and stood a moment looking at the tan and yellow
shabby grasses blowing
on the hillside, and they looked as if they were heading
somewhere, toward at least