dead music

learning to ask nothing about time across oceans,
nothing about what’s for dinner,
if the habits have returned like smoke back to fire,
to ask nothing about the seasons, what birdsong,
what migrations from eurasia to my bedroom,
the Martins and Warblers bring no letters from you,
to ask nothing about what new brand of cigarette,
nothing especially about what you’re reading,
(not that i ever understood Deleuze or Derrida)
& on Sartre only his letters to simone give me comfort
(thank you for the book btw, xo).
nothing about what you’re watching,
what school of cinema, why enjambements, why so many commas.
having said all this, i’m ready to get back to bed
with my seraphs, my sirens, Belial,
with the it that is always chasing me in dreams,
with dead music, calipso calipso calispo,
a view of the city through my window, the tower light blinking red,
i return especially to nothing, to no recollection of you,
to a fire that has not burned for millenia, to you.