I Think Of That

I think of that which I would classify as extreme beauty As merely the dropping off point, beyond which I can't consciously absorb or bear anymore Of a certain slant of the light, that's coming through The curtain; of a pervasive, restless odor That's straining toward me, in the hothouse, Or that look in your eyes; So blue, and so distant As though caught up in thoughts of your own mortality; Dying deliberately, as you do, A little bit more each day, inching closer to it And why do I think that howling outside Is my hearts scalded future, Finding you dead, in that thin edge of light Creeping through the conspiracy of curtains; dead In the hothouse's mist that tumbles down From all those staring spigots, The fog of scent rising over your blue eyes Like a fractured wave.