I Think Of That Poem by Patti Masterman

I think of that which I would classify as extreme beauty
As merely the dropping off point, beyond which
I can't consciously absorb or bear anymore
Of a certain slant of the light, that's coming through
The curtain; of a pervasive, restless odor
That's straining toward me, in the hothouse,
Or that look in your eyes;
So blue, and so distant
As though caught up in thoughts of your own mortality;
Dying deliberately, as you do,
A little bit more each day, inching closer to it
And why do I think that howling outside
Is my hearts scalded future,
Finding you dead, in that thin edge of light
Creeping through the conspiracy of curtains; dead
In the hothouse's mist that tumbles down
From all those staring spigots,
The fog of scent rising over your blue eyes
Like a fractured wave.