aller to go is to be gone; one day quick as a ship
wreck dignified by sea, I realize I am incongruent
to the lover that has slept asleep beside me;
arriver the fact is made with a sewed-up-sutured hinge;
the worst part of the dark mothed to him
and his leaving; arriving
descender could be dirty and full of moaning; I prefer
the metaphor of going down as to lick the ABC’s
over our drawn-out damp drowning;
devenir we never do, did, become what married means;
did not become one thing expressible, did
not hold hands at any of our ends; did
entrer not enter but entirely lost the point of love
as an entrance into the other: bags, beds,
bods, brushing, blues, believing
monter in mountains beyond their massive missives
and missed the effort of up, took
opposite escalators far too often, not never;
mourir I have
naitre have I?
partir it is silly to think you could never be left, when leaving
is what lovers do; and do like little elevators;
leaving squared and sometimes always windowed;
passer imagine watching him go; a levey and pull
at the head; or a boxcar bod, caboose growing
smaller smaller; little husband
rentrer who cannot come back home because there
is none; home is not there, and the problem
of there is there is none;
rester that baffling idea (who created it) that love
was a pink peony or a barbarian or a banana
in a still frame;
retourner it is the same;
revenir what escapes and stays is his hair
sticking to the drain and so you
see that hair is one kind of memory
sortir you can firmly hold and release; the lover
like a door; can you (you can’t) any more
tomber nakedly fall through