I keep pages of his poetry
bound title-less together
right side, second drawer down it
takes the fleeting seat of
unpunctuated honor –

volumes of typewriter punched
verses extend
arms like parenthesis
around a life sodden
with alcohol and
spattered with heavy drugs
pills smashed under the
hot wheels of a
sooty freighter.

he reminds me that I
am the only one mentioned in his hand-
scrawled will
(written first because he too often
tasted the end of
an ashen muzzle),

he wants me to have
his words
because that’s the only thing he
ever gave
a fuck about, anyway.


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