In a random obituary, I hear of your death. No more rain; the balcony is still wet. You have been dead for eight months. A deep river flows between the futons laid out side by side. You were always late. Red and gold fish hide under a rock. Always late, and always your sleeves carefully folded. A cat knows the sunny spot. Flash lilies stick their heads out of the barrier net. I haven’t forgiven you for showing up with a comic book on that day. Bright leaves don’t see me in the interior darkness. A downstairs neighbor talks to me for the first time. I try, but I cannot remember much else about you. The backdoor is ajar; two mosquitoes made it in.
The run of a horse
is a gallop. Roam, rove
with restraint. Run those hounds,
those errands. Run your eye
down the list.
Today, girls and boys soak sugar sacks in gasoline, light and glide them up over the wall, hoping to land their kite bombs in their enemy’s future
spiders that have crept back
into the wine room corners. I like to
leave them, to
leave something alive