This Loneliness—: A Pornography of Riches

Before I gave the red sofa away,

I lay back in its velvet plush, devouring

Vosges, square after square—:

before, before and then no more. Pandemic

time—: house sold, I spent

two months in the empty

living room, afloat on an air mattress

surrounded by plants. Closing time—:

robins built a nest above the kitchen light—:

an opening to move into

alone. Almost solace, alone hurt

less than shifting threats my body insisted

on posing—: dam break, stroke.

Ophthalmic, carotid—: aneurysm gapes,

drifts, disappears from my chart. Throws me

adrift. Out of the ICU, now, ritual keeps

time—: each day, a floral China pattern

breakfast. I don’t believe in deprivation.

(I think, perhaps I am food-sexual.) Remember

how I kissed the soil like cake? (Would you have

kissed me if I’d asked?) How rich—:

a picture. Worth the same

uncountable ] # [ Luther sang runs

about—: oh, my love—: I’m starving, fevered,

through—: Where can I go

without a mask? What can I hope

                                                         (if

I don’t want to ask—: is everything—:

too much—: to take?) of you?