In this, my life
the back and forth
the running of yellow lights
beneath the snarky grey sky
of morning

There isn’t much joy in it
the television, radio shows
bad news from abroad
that patch
of polished floorboards
where the litter box
used to be

I read another of Herzog’s letters
to Edvig

If only I could be like him
soulful and prolific
at home with my tragedies
preening them, combing
the fleas from their hair

If only my romances
were as desperate
as Madeleine at the country house
my lovers despising
or revering me
with the conviction of soldiers

Then I could write
with the moon at my feet
with stars on my lips
words that stick
like melancholy
to an open cemetery gate

Between the silence
of your leaving
and my empty
supermarket cart
that I might find
poetry in this