We had a drink and got in bed. That’s when the boat in my mouth set sail, my fingers drifting in the shallows of your buzz cut. And in the sound of your eye a skiff coasted—boarding it I found all the bric-a-brac of your attic gloom, the knives from that other island trip, the poison suckleroot lifted from God
Never, never, never, never, never.
Even now I can’t grasp “nothing” or “never.”
They’re unholdable, unglobable, no map to nothing.
Never? Never ever again to see you?
An error, I aver. You’re never nothing,
because nothing’s not a thing.
I know death is absolute, forever,
the guillotine—gutting—never to which we never say goodbye.
But even as I think “forever” it goes “ever”
and “ever” and “ever.” Ever after.
I’m a thing that keeps on thinking. So I never see you
is not a thing or think my mouth can ever. Aver:
You’re not “nothing.” But neither are you something.
Will I ever really get never?
You’re gone. Nothing, never—ever.