I can't find the title
of a memory about you
with a hand torn from darkness
I step on fragments of faces
soft friendly profiles
frozen into a hard contour
circling above my head
empty as a forehead of air
a man's silhouette of black paper
living--despite
living--against
I reproach myself
for the sin of forgetfulness
you left an embrace
like a superfluous sweater
a look like a question
our hands won't transmit
the shape of your hands
we squander them
touching ordinary things
calm as a mirror
not mildewed with breath
the eyes will
send back the question
every day I renew my sight
every day my touch grows
tickled by the proximity
of so many things
life bubbles over like blood
Shadows gently melt
let us not allow the dead to be killed-
-perhaps a cloud will transmit remembrance-
-a worn profile of Roman coins.
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