A Valediction Forbidding Mourning

My swirling wants. Your frozen lips.The grammar turned and attacked me.Themes, written under duress.Emptiness of the notations.

They gave me a drug that slowed the healing of wounds.

I want you to see this before I leave:the experience of repetition as deaththe failure of criticism to locate the painthe poster in the bus that said:my bleeding is under control

A red plant in a cemetery of plastic wreaths.

A last attempt: the language is a dialect called metaphor.These images go unglossed: hair, glacier, flashlight.When I think of a landscape I am thinking of a time.When I talk of taking a trip I mean forever.I could say: those mountains have a meaningbut further than that I could not say.

To do something very common, in my own way.