--after Robert Frost Death permeates me, these haunting hallways, stalked; I cannot wake --your golden ghostly head staring at me through the night, accusing me of burying you too soon (oh, but I didn't bury you, I didn't!), your unforgettable face, turning away one last time, to your final resting place, your death flowerbed. Why can't I remember you unless you impose yourself on me? Your once full back, craggly like the Alps the week before you left, the month before you left, your sunken hind, your thousand-yard stare. I gazed at you, laid beside you the night before, convinced we had more nights, but you knew that wasn't true. I guarded the front door after you left, chair and everything, a wake of one. Why can't I sleep, unless it is day? Abandon all hope of work, give up my day job; I feel you tugging at the heart- strings of my soul. Why live? Your repose, beatific in the form of an inchoate question, and my listlessness, a drowsy headache. --

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