In a parallel dimension I’ve broken
everybody’s heart by killing myself
or dying of a drug overdose
on that brown couch that one time.
But can you see how the guilt
of this parallel fact spins
a chrysalis of lucidity here with us?
Even though it may not have “happened,”
we have to deal with it.
I dare not check the November ’94 obituaries
from the microfilm of that Syracuse newspaper.
There’s spillage across metaphysical boundaries,
the parentheses of life which are really,
after all, just a prejudice on your part.
Sad T-Rex with a watering can.
Its tail is like an ember, spreading fire
to trees all around. The dinosaur turns
and tries to put the fire out
but with every further pivot,
its tail sets more foliage ablaze.
The thing’s arms are short and its body inflexible.
Physiological limits are the architecture
of an afterlife’s grasp.
The evasive fire — truth of death —
is forever directly behind you,
because it is a part of you.