tear. A hole in me now is. You’re somewhere
in the back of my mind, tucked away beneath
breakfast, coffee, the day’s agenda.
If angels live in heaven,
Wings fluttering, surely they would
welcome you with a hummingbird’s greeting?
Pieces of my heart’s garden have been shredded.
These thoughts of you
rise fluttering in my skull like birds-beating on air,
trapped in too small a space-my skull.
Truly memory is the mother of the muses.
My muse is you. Here. I am now writing.
My pitiful attempts to celebrate and mourn you,
miss you, look this poem,
even this page–will outlast you.
How strange. Like swallows darting over
the park by the Hudson, thoughts of you pop into my head,
in line with my heart’s sight
then vanish.. Here you are not here,
not as real or enduring perhaps, as this poem.