11/6/2024
even when you could no longer eat
you told me you dreamed of hot dogs
and demon-haunted planets
valkyries and donuts
that you saw Gabriel once
dressed in purple
on a long cold walk
on Thanksgiving night in Central Park
and later still told me silently
through layers of morphine
that life is worth keeping
even when it hides itself in aching
or shines only dimly through semi-sheer
layers of institutional polyester
curtains like moonlight
for you this earth was always flame
you told me the last time I saw you
as you casually emptied
your colostomy bag on the other side
of the bathroom door that a flock of cranes
once surrounded you
on the roof you climbed
onto illegally from the balcony
of your apartment
early one fall in Denver
in order to look at the sun
as it set directly
their wings like yours
sudden and deafening