solitary performers

you walk in front of me
toward your own death.

i am not able to help
or hold you back.

i take a deep breath

and you have something to say
as you pass an old
red-leather trunk.

i consider the morning drunk

in his good mood all day long,

another actor in search of himself
singing a Marquis de Sade song.

we can't put a stop to it now.

we saw scenes like that a dozen times or more
after the most recent war

when the fuses kept blowing and there was no more light.

our street had at least fifteen people with nothing to do;
each face with a green, a mauve, and a blue,

and you thought there was no such thing

but now admit frankly in one fashion or three
that untroubled creativity will keep you free.

i petitioned but you would not yield,

left your straight jacket in the wheat field

where only color had the power

to command your attention after an hour,

and went your separate way

where, at the local town hall,
for a long time there was a big crowd without any real dialogue.

each of us carried on a personal monologue
in the direction of the other

while miscounting money on a cold afternoon.

i thought i wouldn't miss you so soon.

"let me bathe myself in your eyes
 like a newborn surprise,"

i said.  But now you're dead.