Epitaph

To write You
existed me
would not be merely
a deaf translation.

For there is no
sequel to the passage when
I saw — as you would
never again
be revealed — you see me
as I would never
again be revealed.

Where I stand now
before the throne of
glory, the script
must remain hidden. Where,
but in the utterance itself?

Born halt and
blind, hooped-in by
obligations, aware
of the stare of
the animal inside, I
hide behind
mixed
instrumentalities
as behind a square
of crocodile scute —

while cyanide drifts
from clouds to
the rivers. And in this
too might be seen
a figuration
of the human,
another intimately
lethal gesture of our
common existence.

Though I also wear
my life into death, the
ugliness I originate
outlives me.