The ways I guess I’ll be missing you
From the dead moths staccatoing
the sill
I count them still – now
at forty-two and rising – to the bra
black and ripped, on the floor, beside
the bed. There was nature and there
was fun, this is art of the heart, dead
and gone, preserved, not for long.
I’ll miss you until the cows lay down
predicting rain, after that, I’ll miss you
again, like trains should miss quaint drunks
on the line but don’t.
I’ll miss you like a mole missing his
hole, flailing around on hot concrete,
blind, lost and useless. I’ll miss you
until the pylons stop buzzing, until
the starlings fly when the electricity
dies, till blackout, till infection, till
the end
I’ll miss you as well as I can.

Kris Thain

If you have any comments on this poem,  Kris Thain would be pleased to hear them.