The Vulgarity of Widowing

The Cimmerian land and sky
pours out of me,
a private vortex
of our time.
Your anamnesis holds this
weaker throat and these weaker arms and these brave thighs to the rocking chair,
and they can still remember
your teeth.
The fly hovers, I bat it,
all part of the futz around
here, it fills me up
and bleeds me dry.
No one comes here.
I am too irascible and crass and scurrilous in style.
The clock ticks.
The vulpine shadows cavort
in an opaque two-step
through the slit in the curtain,
across the floor.
The rocking chair becomes me
and I for it,
somehow together
yet split.
The willowwacks exist only here,
in the shack we once inhabited
together
where now only vines and twigs and decay survive.
This is my jointure,
this is the entelechy
and I am trapped here.