Florence Weinberger


Guardian of that boundary, I was given the briefest glimpse
of the rigging, the chemical mischief involved,
body wired to release its embodiment of desire; a glitch
in his breath, and then a bristling silence.

Some say the spirit stays around
who knows what for, but I stood up shaken, I
left, or I was taken by the living, to begin
my years of altered vision, revision. I saw him in hawks,

in dream and intuition, on screens, in dross,
or a man on the street crossing, as he wouldn’t have let me,
against the light.
His books kept turning their pages, his jackets smoldered,

threatened combustion, I gave them away. If we’d had more,
a little more banter, conjecture, what is the source of attraction,
repulsion, regret and acceptance, the kinds of conversations
that end in bed, and in giggles.