for raymond carver

he waited with his toes out from under the covers,
and muttered "bon nuit", rum-laced, heart blank,
his poems written and unwritten and at last forgotten.
he lost them in wispy clouds of catalogue lovers,
in bathrooms and neon motels without thanks,
with carnivorous fervor unleashed in peruvian cotton.
and without affection for his daughter's mother,
whispered, "you are nothing", tiger-like, frank
as cleopatra slept, forgetting the rotten.

JHS