If Ulysses should Die on a Tuesday

If Ulysses should Die on a Tuesday

It’s the caliber of the hole,

the intensity of the wound,

the hideout (inside my heart)

where I bank the depleted

pages of my life.

It’s imagining the unimaginable,

the languorous side street,

my Ulysses without his Dublin.

It’s the tacit climate we refer to

when there is no champion,

no comfort inside my bungalow.

I know what texture

your thighs are compelled to surrender

to my dreams.

I’m the one who doesn't want closure

with no vested interest in hearing

your voice fade into a separate horizon.