You knew of him, who knew

of the prior, who knew of the next. A

trick or dying ration. The peeling mug

from years ago. The best one, my

best girl. Do I miss you? I’ve never left

anyone quicker, stayed with anyone

longer. I conflate things in my head.

The biggest wasp I’ve ever seen

sharks against the window, looking

in my home while I look out. This

is the nature of separation.

Distinctions we make between

one type of wind and another. Writing

is like blinking. You had us write

to water, your sweating face drier

with revision. Protected by all

the shivering spindles in the graveyard,

where there was the me you wanted

and the me who sat there. I had

to walk through you to trace my hand

down that banister. You is a noun

that killed me, or a noun that failed

to save me. I will never see the facts. I

cry wolf. The wolf is a feeling.