I was reading Wittgenstein when

all three were killed on the viaduct.

A picture shrine and flowers on three of the four corners

at the intersection by my house.

When the phone rang I was alone

in a small room. There is a bill I cannot pay.

Even when my eyes burn I do not

turn off the television. I am also

reading Wittgenstein. Blue light

fills my mind and in walks Ludwig Wittgenstein.

Wittgenstein, how to contemplate their death

and intertwine Ludwig Wittgenstein?

And now I’m driving or phoning. At least always driving

and planning on driving and turning towards the viaduct,

and reaching for the phone and cocking it between my ear

  and shoulder

and looking and changing lanes, getting across and

  moving

towards an exit. And I use my horn on these poor sods

who can get out of the way of nothing. O Nothing,

and my poor dead Ludwig Wittgenstein.

I’m thinking about driving into Ludwig Wittgenstein

and through his beautiful mind and I shall paint the walls

in primary colours and as my car disappears it will be clear

that I fly on—gentle through the fields of Ludwig

  Wittgenstein.

Dear Wittgenstein, kiss me home and tell me how to

  make sense

of the viaduct, the lotus field and the flicker of blue inmy

  small room.

I love you, my idea

of Ludwig Wittgenstein.

People like ants disassemble the viaduct. There is a song

being composed on guitar. There is a photograph in the

  newspaper

and the headline reads “family killed on the viaduct.”

I’m driving through the city

and towards their hometown. North towards the trees

  and light.

In my mind there is a motif I’m trying to remember

  involving therelationship

between nature and the thoughts of Ludwig Wittgenstein

but all I remember is that it was as beautiful as rain, orthe

  idea of rain,

as one drives through the snapping of epiphany brought

  by Wittgenstein.

The song will be sung, and jingle through the minds

of mourners, public and private. For this death, I will be

  both,

driving towards their hometown and also in the grocery

  line

publicly staring at their portrait in the paper. I willgather

butter and olives. Cream for my skin. I will smell the fire

roasted pepper and I will taste cheese from the goat.

At home I will recycle the paper. I will move to the living

  room

and reread my notes on Ludwig Wittgenstein. I will sing

the song and make sense of the viaduct. I will take gin in a

  plastic cup.

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