He could be read as smart and arch. Could be. Possibility poised to anhiliate regret and yet ready to negate the moment that would destroy the pain of loss. Rather clear eyed. A sincere momento mori that will not rage against the leave taking itself but certainly quibble with the form of exit. A decorum that is hard to put off.

Take the conclusion of "Why I Will Not Wear the Red Ribbon at Your Grave"

what we call dirt is really stones, rubbed to atoms, and leftover tangles
of plants, softened by beetles     and forgotten teenage clothes, thrown
from cars     and spit, posters, last summer's charcoal     plus decades of rain

soil is information, bitter to the lips

It is not odd that one finds oneself generating lists to describe this work. The poetry itself uses the device to dissolve affective tension. You want to imitate it. Not because it gets under your skin but because it shimmers on the skin like drying bodily fluids on the way to the shower.

A way with endings, he has.

but you     leering like Plato, know
there is never enough light

From the the "bedroom" poem in The McHugh Suite. There is something here of the long visual pauses that adorn the poetry of Adrienne Rich. Almost a kind of New England ornament. Negative space like silhouettes. Yes, adorn.