the service of the grave

an old
and dear friend
stands outside today
during the service
of the grave.

i have stood
on line
as well-
twenty-four hours
removed from my
jamaican mountain peak,
watching as my moon sank
into the dark and
stars behind me
and another sun raised
red and fuchsia
over that still
blue Carib sea.

a drunken flight or two
and there I was;
next to my departed
in the spitting rains
of February,
just like him today.

a cold fucking mother
this is.
-pale blue wisps of sky
and I hate you
blown against clean
and shaven cheeks.

no saving grace
for days like these
-save the thought
that one amongst
will never see this
pane again.

i stand beneath my
live oak

leaves, branches
heavy with rain
i move in and out
through them
smashing my cigarette;
we've survived another
winter

now together
we bear the
burden
of
satisfying
the unfulfilled