Dialogues with Grief

A red bottle of Chateau Margaux
on my shelf with other precious

things I leave unopened. You
watch me get drunk

on eight millimeter movies at night
until we are both blank as walls.

My shadow mimes me. Maybe
forgiveness is found

in someone else’s house. I
try to keep my attic chest closed

like a jar of winter cherries. You
say open a window. I say I don’t know

how to swallow the sun. You
say love is a dying rose.