Cemetery, 1793

I run the bath, Charlotte,
and write in my diary, Charlotte,
where my days are numbered, Charlotte,
and I consider the corpses

The shell of a whiskered wasp
on my bleached windowsill
where I kept it trapped by blowing at it,
thinking it to be your messenger,
come to say you do not love me

The shattered stain of a moth
on the splinters and black veins
of the windowframe.
I caught it and crushed it
when it tried to come through,
mistaking it for your hovering
moussaline mouth,
trying to invite me
into the chitin night again
for drinks and stumbling

The dried, balled woodlice
by the skirting board
I thought to be your beauty spots
brushed off in your haste
to disappear completely
when you heard me on the landing,

The spider now drowned
in the running water, a snip of your hair,
as if you meant to say,
"Jean-Paul, you said you wanted me,
but if you insist on locking me out,
all you'll have is this lock."

I have run the bath, Charlotte,
and wait with my dead army and diary,
I wish you'd join me, Charlotte,
I have need of your company