Mark

        In Memoriam

The waters of the eye come from somewhereand so continue, drawn up from the world

    we see, through the weep and writhe of blood    that sees. Light oils the circle of light,

our streets gleaming, our waters falling upwardafter the downpour. Long ago, I left this party.

    I wandered across the dark garden, alone,    and saw a window propped against a tree.

In it, the ghost of you, swallowed the momentI leaned a little closer. Me here, your name

    there, a little music in the distance    inking the guestbook of someone else's novel.

The word so bright it makes a smolder of us.It darkens the eye that opens to be signed.

    Something you said convinced me the great forgetting    I feared most was just what this place needed.

I love that. And still I fear it. Loathe it.Each name no less a stranger to the hand.

    By now, the party has turned a little sad.    The flowers of the embers tell us, it's time.

Time to linen the mirrors, as is our custom,to box each eye in tissues for the journey.

    Light's needle pulls outward from its iris.    And was that you who lay my head on its face,

one eye open, another closed. You who taught methis. Read, you said. And so I started.