Drew Milne

      for Stacy Doris

who predicted beautiful things would come of going to the ballet

grief is with me sharp again
           hungry to take what’s left
           even hoover through the cough mixture
           the relenting night, the life-support octopus
           hungry still to take take, rip to threads
           disperse even our modest coherence
           into a cloud of baffling starlings
           blown off whatever course still clusters
           before bombing out the mangled pier

grief is with me sharp again
           for want of something more sustaining than sun
           keeps too but not for keeps, for good
           or peacocks at Tooting set to dérive
           even the uncertainty principle that kept writing
           numbers numbers as wanton quarks
           but your sun burnt out close on fifty
           and even the sun will die—can’t wait

grief is with me sharp again
           hungry to take what’s left,
           they’ll eat your leavings if you let them, the fuckers
           more grey goose, before another quick intake
           shatters what’s left of the moral furniture

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