When someone dies
you forget about them
or you don't. Either way
it's like carrying a bale
of river-weeds across
a small patch of sun.
Everything is like that. Or it's not.
Or it's like an impending kiss.
Soft and wet and not yet here
or past. When you come in the back
door I'm petting the shoe
with intensity and care.
I thought it was relative
to something else. I thought
you'd be home later.
