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