He was layers: oeuf à la Russe, tout a fait
Fabergé, in his way;

he had things within things, little glitterings,
he had a chair I'd given him, very best leather, my

very own gelt, Christmassing, but then he seemed
to tend to stay inside it, mouldering

ginnily; there was also this
pillow he complained I'd failed to send him, injured party,

on moving him out lock & stock; & a certain 3-quart
Pyrex dish that he faxed about

in the middle of the night, omitting to mention
the car or the house, or our centuries of anxious

cohabitation, the procreation
we'd dabbled in: the major themes were untouched

on: it was what I'd worn
or a smile he'd sworn I'd thrown

to some man playing the piano, some picayune
betrayal: his manifestations

remained membranous, he thought that the loss
of his chair was just criminal