Alive in the fields of asphodels—
do you feel the west wind, squint-eyed
towards summer that never quite arrives?
We are fictions here . . .

but then we were always fictions
always one step ahead of the tax man
needing affection, holidays, whiskey
rub of another's itch.

Don't remind me
that the dogwood flashed by us
out of a spring thunderstorm, ozone that
cosmic street cleaner stinging like juniper
staying like gin, like the way parts of you
felt. There is no thought of you now
that doesn't set my teeth on edge.

Guilt still cherished, the steel
dry emptiness left by the loss of love—
don't remind me how the moon held in
August; we swam far out in the warm black
waves, moonlight splattered like leaves in our
wake. We never got there

never reached world's edge
the heroic life elusive as ghosts of Hades—
wrap your arms around them, they vanish
like smoke . . .

so don't embellish transcendence.
I'd rather live in a rent house
and hire myself out as a farm hand
than be the king of it.