If we do not love each other
how come the thought of you dissolves me, like sorrow?
like the world being poured back into a dead lake
bereft yet congenial
Perhaps love is a burden, devoid of simplicity
perhaps you would have been bored by happiness
you would have found it dull
Is your home in St. Gilles
I imagine an etymologist’s study
the stag beetle I gave you, placed on a promontory
facing a wall of books, other framed dead beetles
I need to write you out of me
like a diminishing carapace of dots and lines
And after a few sips of whiskey
I no longer think of you.