Picasso the matelot, his Colt cocked,Amiably inert in the photoFrom Houston’s museum studio,
A womandownwind from Nagasaki now dyingis forced to decide
The last time you were beside meit was April.I knew it was over
In flight: bird, arrow, grief.Static: a red chairwaiting for someone in a patch of sun
Tonight I walk out into winter’s fingersstepping from one stone
Waiting in a lofty hotel lobbyhoneycombed with entrances and exits,feeling weak, I find a corner, lean
One of the first times I sawMy cousin’s son he was a kid wearingA baggy Canadian hockey jersey
What’s a song without measure,Or a verse without meter,Company without pleasure,
He never even noticed anymorethe “finish” of the wine, the tang of the salt,the sweetness of the sugared petit four,
