To a Woman Contemplating Suicide

you seem to understand neither words

         nor silence

but I will dive once again, foolish man,

     into the sea of self-pity

and loathing that has become your time

        on earth.

inside of me – and you -

             are beauty and terror, both

 doors sometimes leading to each other,

         and also fragile, rich moments

  of  sheer banality

            mind clouds flaring sublimely

a lazy thought minding its own business

            some immutable disinterested synapse

outside, too, terror and beauty

leaning, if we believe the awful news, to terror

where beauty is stark and rare

            yet enough to last a lifetime

but walk outside and sip

            tea under the old bent street trees

and see clouds of vaporous brandy

peach and apricot reflected

in dainty cups at the chic cafe in the tame town

            legacy of multitudes of conquests

now firmly held by your kind and ilk

it’s yours to savor

or continue the drive-by world angry and incoherent

            a victim of defeat and meaninglessness

mauled by law and the stern keepers of your soul

            time on your hands and wracking your brain

for ways to retaliate at your own illusions

take your pick, choose to lose, or refuse

            to slaughter yourself slowly

any door will do, or none at all if contentment

can be found in the slow turning

of the world and the spinning of your mind