that we have the only world we know
to ourselves and that the moment
is everything if not the sea in this constriction
then at least the wind unwinding in bare trees
at least your last postcard on the wall
your handwriting your thoughts from the city
your fears and loves and observations
(your bold move to London fast approaching,
your boyfriend coloring on the couch,
your cat puking in the corner)
at least a little of your consciousness
unwinding in my chest
and that the ashes on the hill
were not the end of you.
Lunar eclipse over Santa Monica, CA
(Frederic J. Brown/Agence France-Presse—Getty Images)
