mervin
he was writing a book up until the day he died
let’s call him mervin
it was about hitler’s hairdresser
the mundane mirrored conversations
of a multiple murderer
i never saw a snippet of it
this professor who didn’t profess writing
but who was writing it slowly
over the year’s killing
i talked to him in the sea
on the seats of health
under a tanning sun
when the sun sparkled on the sea
how a shadow formed to
be minded of the falsehoods of a day
when before these days were dark days
within his sad smile when i asked for more
and now he has gone
suddenly the book closed
smudging the last inkling
that it had gone to the grave with him
sometimes there is no point
around which a sadness can congeal
dry tears that are not yours to shed
but still your bitten lips whiten
mervin through the mirror gone
