Afterword

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For years now, I wander you, a vagrant mist
skirting your acres of blankness. What moon

unwound in you still drags and hurls my refrain.
Tonight, your absence pelts its far seas. I wake

to explosions, delirium whirls the narrow ear
of my sail. Tell me, do you still don black shirts

to the likeness of your moods, do wisps of my spine
still sling you in iron arcs, or do I wade through your

days behind a haze? I long to jolt you with my fever
again, my fists of hurtling rocks down the sediment,

the red siren of your heart. But the grey well
of your voice tells me this is the end.

Out of my window, whose long, drawn mouth flaps
a wide cry, I watch you, a mirage anchored, masts

tall and rippling against the slopes of my thighs.