What Is Left
but to tear the pieces to pieces?
The church bells’ muddy clang resounded
into the mold-colored universe a bolt
of clouds unraveled across. Drizzle announced itself,
spittle by spittle. Then the crescendo.
The din ushered whence as if the edacious
sky rushed off with the steeple.
You’re always off thinking about a million different places,
you said before closing the door.
Now those (million?) places are your absence & back-
ground. Like this place with its missing
tintinnabulum, it’s see-through drapery,
the Eros-in-erosion weather, blind-
folding me: I look to where you
do not stand, beside the fountain, blowing a kiss
to the camera, sunburnt, freckled.
Where you do not sip your drink. Or share
under this dry-rotted parasol coming undone
in my otherwise empty hand.