my dead grow larger, as if to punish me for all I failed to do, what I hadn’t time for, what I didn’t know I needed — all those halcyon days when love seemed lined up, ready to be taken when joy could be enjoyed, then left behind for the next joy — days of, years of joy with no idea what dearth lay ahead when age would claim its due — all you who died before your time died in passion’s arms — Patroclus, Antigone — you were not like I am, the living & the dead