Light doesn’t have to move forward.
It can confuse itself, reroute after pausing.
The spiderweb between you and the sky
as it is wracked by rain. I spent years inside
the collapsing of the great untenable elms,
the middle C you strummed
become the sound of what had fallen.
You’d play the early morning
and I’d notice something floating
behind you, happiness, maybe, or sunlight
licking the pollen from its fingertips,
and flushed on your mattress, discussing
our families again, the split lakes
of their wreckage, I didn’t know what you meant
when you said abandoning a past
can also preserve it. Small kingdom
of takeout boxes, pale music,
the sweat greasing your clavicle,
breaking out your long coat for November —
I didn’t think it would finish us.
The light we inscribed in that room
has not abated. Has not ended for me.
I looked out the window until your face
turned silver with the train.
about the author