(distraction)
We could be eating pasta. Or
waiting for a left-turn
signal. Your elbow
comes to mind.
How I’ll hold
it.
Bite you.
We could be eating pasta. Or
waiting for a left-turn
signal. Your elbow
comes to mind.
How I’ll hold
it.
Bite you.
The gift I meant to send
to you,
I opened.
Because you
are never coming back.
Even now
you are slipping through
the shadows. Like
a thousand
hexagons, you turn
divide and turn,
divide and
turn.
Remember
the harvest honeycombs?
…the end-of-Summer sweet?
You are never
coming back.
The gift I meant to send.
I opened.
No words for
Summer heat, no reason
to believe we
will not
find
reincarnation—
Let fingers
trace the way. Let
fingers weigh
The trace
of everything
left
to hold
come Winter.