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