Last night, I spoke
your name in a crowded room.
The place fell silent.
Even in my dreams, they've heard
the news of your death.

I cannot keep you
crumpled like a poem
in my chest pocket
you, who will not fold
even to my hand’s pressure

the bridge over
an empty riverbed…
my mother offers advice

old portage path
a chipmunk peeps out
from the fox’s skull

counting cars
as the train rolls past
a stranger’s wave

blackbird song
as far as the road goes
between the hills

noon rush...
the spray of river water
on hot concrete

your absence
I kill the flame
that inspired my poem

the ten taps of your fingertips
to a sonnet’s beat
I understand now
the precision that lets you hold
butterflies, and me

summer evening
the poet tells me
who I am

Tonight
I am worn out
with wishing on winter stars
just as cold and faraway as
you are.

* * *

Your love
wraps around me,
soft, solid, and silent--
one more seashell where I can't hear
the sea.

ending
I follow my own footsteps
through the empty field