Letter

For Lauren Berlant.

The picture's faded but I remember
when I first came and what I left
behind like yesterday if yesterday
was a home of neatly cut
corners. These days my finger
-prints are smudged with work
and leak over the edges
of a frame by which I mean
a shame. My last known
whereabouts this sunset picnic park
cruising for a bruising cock
poised for a-doodle-doo. Even wine
is labelled in this country. Perhaps
forensics will recover the clues
in my dead body and ship it
back to a black and white fits
in your pocket past by which I mean
if we can conjure sweet music
before the end of our nine lives
let's.