This year is like blundering someplace else
this year happens to be meeting
people people people
who kill me every moment
of our lovemaking, and
yet you do not care, you do not
step out leaving our
desolation behind to smother
or stroke my nothingness
even once, reaching out to our memories
that are like
us, hanging ever so loose
and forlorn like all
those
broken, dejected tiles
that line the inglenooks of our
sorrows
frozen and killing
killing me each moment
this year or the next or the next
or the next and the fleeting emptiness
of times that can only
gape at our frozen shores
and all our dense necking and wines
and women and fantasies that
are all so very kind and killing like
all the people this year this year this year