A Death In The Sun

Man speaks your name like a burning anathema,

and picks up your body where 

butterflies of newspapers circle above you.


The yellow sun is in your hair,  the darkened color 

of tamed waters.

The warm yellow sun—

The quiet yellow sun—


Your death rides a black van;

Your death, more real than life, comes at five o’clock, 

in a wedding tuxedo.

To R.Normand(II)

I’m thinking of you,

The April sun pours its gold on me,

and I’m happy.

I’m thinking of you,

but you do not really know me,

nor would you care to.

You, a playboy in the world, a lost soul,

You know the words of too many a man.

But I have only my pen,

clumsy and well-spent in a late age,

trying to serenade you in a different language –

Even my verses are mocking me.

But I know I must love, if in pain, if in secrecy;

I remember your silhouette and a river of lost faces

rushing down down down to me …