mournings of a muse

what strikes me worse than memories are the noises on a windy night.
she howled.
undressed, her skin was as pale as lightning.

i could do nothing but tell her a joke
and then write poetry at her funeral.

she couldn't hear me;
she was screaming and crying and she can't hear me now
or anymore ever. the effervescence
in her eyes was sharp and rigid.

this man i'd never seen before fell on top of her
like a crab and pounded his fists into her
over and over again as she sobbed and howled
like the noises on a windy night.

i tried
to touch him but he was blinded by some foreign HELL.
he was a walking breathing
salivating DEATH.

and what could i do the whole time
with my beauty and corporeal provocations?

i couldn't even fully appear.
even now all i can do is remember.