Who, I didn’t love him enoughninety thousand names for the governmentto gamble on, to conjure, out of a holeso big it could be onlyWho said to me look at my lesions, no,Kevin, really look, don’t lookat the starsenough of your avoidance behaviorHis body, in state, or tumbled througha rinse cycle drying in the feathery windlint on your net, your intersticednet, whoI loved so long but not enoughWho gave Steve Abbott the “AIDS Awardfor Poetic Idiocy” seven years before he died?                                                                            (Ed Dorn)Who, rather than waitingseized his little liver in asilver thimble, the man I mistook for a moultinghen, I, reigning the roost, the big cock of 1983,Iimpenetrable safe of steel, thosetiny fingers made me look like a monkeyWho on the plush rowof velvet embroidery, Joni Mitchell sobbingin the pew behind me, “I wish I were a riverI could skate away on,” a thirst so deepconfession doesn’t cover itI wanted him to liveto fill his throat with “Mella, mella petoIn medio flumine,” but whowas it told meThey are moving his bodyinto the memorable room of a long loveWho was the mad man who took him back,while we watched indignant such a man could goin the front row with Lisa and Danwatching David Wojnarowicz screamhis spittle on my chinat the gay bookstore in San Franciscomarvelling at, comparing him,who did this to me, that Ilived and did so little to be clearalways the quaint uppermost in mind,my mad strive for personality,always the quaint peppermint misreadwhomade the little tiger the big lamb on Sunday,broke my will, gave me to the boyfollowing him down to the graveholding back, somethingungivenwho launched this rocket into space,that burst into earth, one death at a time,its rockets a flare of red and pink pinspots,livid bouquet in the night skyover beautiful citywhose garden did I pick this death from?Zing, zing, a phone insistentas kismet, the fate that brought me toa dark reply, hello, is Kevin Killianhome, I’ve got a message, andwho is this, I whisper into the phone,who did you say was callingfor him, the straight black mouthof the plastic phone,I’ll see if he’s inand who did you say, if you did sayand I don’t think you did saywho, who took me to thisdate in my history, who made myfeet scatter like the burnt leaves ofthe oak seedlings, while I walk tothe phone as though nothingwere happening,under the sky, under the rain, in SanFrancisco, home of the birds and thesun and the big bottle of dilaudin andmorphine I gave to him Sundayand leaving him, quietly, I closedthe door on my nation