another late de Kooning

the fact that I didn’t want any of it

except for an endless John Adams riff

folded into a thousand paper planes one

for each day of grief and you


didn’t want any of it either being

post mortem and beyond

need or memory the fact that

the family only wanted bits


and all our bright plain days were

out of sight and undermined

while in my hand I gripped

a wand


ready to ignite all

that moved or should have shone

the fact that now the truth would

never tell itself because


no story needs itself to sing

or I’m post mortem too

which casts a different light on things

poem studio