Something on the end of a fishingline,
hanging on, or gone, isn’t the same
as something slipping through fingers,
falling gracefully into the water beneath
your feet breathing in the rain.
You know when I talk about birds
that I am at my most faithful:
just today the absence of a
blue heron nearly killed me.
The ancients read from left to right
auspiciously, and right to left with
apprehension: birdbrain
roadkill, birdsign, emptiness.
When memories of gone loves
gather in dreamscape,
do they remember one another?
Do they all wake up disappointed?
What is God but authorfunction?
Hopescape, prayerfield, amen.
If I scan all your old haunts are you
more likely to show up in my dreams?
Do ghosts still believe in forever?
in punctuality? in omniscience?
apologies?
Which big fish story started all this lying?
When I pull up the line I always expect you to smile.
I will never stop being five years old.
Polaroids never lie.
You’re still not here
____________
Forgive me. I've been reading Li-Young Lee again.
