Obit.

I live in you, and on my walk beyond the invalid house
where the leaves crack and they mourn in sharp whispers,
down from the hill to the city where the skyscrapers are draped
with sheets of bluest white, to the bridge where I stand
and glare at the refractions of the light born on the waves,
I dig in my pocket for, I don’t know, for anything to hold,
maybe to study, maybe to throw in the water—

but then I think of you, with no hopes beyond what’s been done,
rain falls and glides down your neck, your chest, the dirt rises
from the ground, the flood and the earth coming to be, embracing,
embracing what was to be our embrace, this city dies with you,
it has died with you, I stare across the bridge to the places we’ve
been, and there is the winter hanging in the air, I search my pockets
for anything, I don’t know, anything, anything to hold.