From The Art of Love

Death


No more
air enters
motions your lips.

I cannot make clean the squalor.

But the many breaths
drawn from your life
come
to the rooms where you lived
fill them with quiet.

The many breaths
all your time past
passed to
the drawers
littered
each room
where I sit where you sat.

I cannot make clean the squalor.

There is
no more air.




From The Art of Love Love Poems and Paintings