for Stacy Doris
who predicted beautiful things would come of going to the ballet
grief is with me sharp again
hungry to take what’s left
even hoover through the cough mixture
the relenting night, the life-support octopus
hungry still to take take, rip to threads
disperse even our modest coherence
into a cloud of baffling starlings
blown off whatever course still clusters
before bombing out the mangled pier
grief is with me sharp again
for want of something more sustaining than sun
keeps too but not for keeps, for good
or peacocks at Tooting set to dérive
even the uncertainty principle that kept writing
numbers numbers as wanton quarks
but your sun burnt out close on fifty
and even the sun will die—can’t wait
grief is with me sharp again
hungry to take what’s left,
they’ll eat your leavings if you let them, the fuckers
more grey goose, before another quick intake
shatters what’s left of the moral furniture
