The Killing Knot

My old apartment sits there, hot,
half-stuffed and shot,
and not entirely moved out of,
like an abscess

or an ancient unattended woman.
I am not attending to her –
I will let the abscess
rot. For I am not

prepared
quite yet
to tie
the killing knot.

What is loss, exactly?
Something dies or fades away
or gets chopped off
but all the rest of us appropriate

its dregs and shreds and residues –
its measurablenesses –
shoes and dresses,
sex toys,

pots and pans,
and other flapping doodles
of unguarded man
and woman:

summer is icumen in
and you and I are going out.
and in.
and out.

and in.
Soon, like everybody else,
we’ll end up in the bin
for others to dig in.


.