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.