To rob a grave not yet stuffed
	  With friendship, only full of woe
	  For one no longer friend or foe
Or anything, though breath still puffs

And somewhere past horizons dim
	  He lives on like a mute reproach
	  In caustic quiet, silently loath
To burst with bounty I need from him.

Unanswering wall, unhuman hate
	  -Or so I paint him, as I must,
	  Who have no knowing from old trust,
As though Christ transfigured my Greek fate.

I stand before the empty hole
	  I lay myself within the dirt
	  I say a prayer for my hurt
To maggots, and my breath is stale.

If I were all of misery made
	  And could confound my final hour
	  With a tear, then no more power
Would he have than a shade.

Instead there's lodged the sovereign sting
	  Of hope betrayed, hope that will not
	  Die, though hope's death and gory rot
Would stop the hole of my being.

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Poems in pieces

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