Divertissement

His death being end-stopped 
never justifies 
the enjambment 
of my survival 
that goes on and on, 
line after line, 
a run-on against 
being alone, 
avoiding my own company 
in the eternal interlude 
some call a dance. 

But this is no pas de deux, 
no matter the pace 
or the footwork, 
position or sequence 
of the steps 
in which I engage— 
mine is an intricate 
awkwardness, 
a disjointed stumbling, 
one foot loading, unloading 
in front of another.