mervin

 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