A great sadness, by which I mean
a sadness that was great
came into my lungs and kicked around –
the pleasure in grief.
Beside him in autumn, with trees
crying leaves the colour of ale,
a version of me will remain forever –
the grief in pleasure.
An asthmatic, he delivered insults
in breathless staccato –
as if God switched his mic off
when he got too offensive
which was often. To breathe
is to live, which is to feel pain
and pleasure. He was angry at death.
He’ll be angry forever.