Thank you for leaving me enough room
to roam behind the splitting room of departure.

You wasted agony on me, but it was I who agonized
in a burning bed
the fire still between us
when your heart, paper thin with Osho,
too much red wine and calamari (and you said
goodbye to another
woman's daughter),
crushed your life into divinity and fragments
of my mourning veil
swooped down like a lusty
black angel, singing tenderly
the long feather of eternal night

I will never sweep away the dust of never that never leaves,
O Munich grave amoung the kale.
I'd sooner stomp you with hard-booted gold than
weep while clouds overturn the light and I am
vulgar in box, never to lie beside you.