It’s common to live properly, to pretend
you don’t feel heat or grief: wave nightly
at Miss Fugue and Mister Goggles before diving
into your nightcap, before reading yourself
a bedtime story or watching your beloved sink
to the bottom of a lake and noting his absence
in your log. The next day you drop his clothes off
at Goodwill like a sack of mail from a warplane
then hobble back to your hovel like a knight moving
only in Ls. It is comfortable to be alive this way,
especially now, but it makes you so vulnerable to shock —
you ignore the mortgage and find a falconer’s glove<
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