You run away like the usual shadow of my southbound train. / Again: bird tracks in ice & I mistook them / for your tiny feet / —but I would know you, wouldn’t I, my / casualty / among all the world’s sighs.
More clearly? I do my best. / “Painfully”—though she might / have meant prayerfully, night / full of drams or drawn, dark rain & the rest—
Like some Sunday afternoon, my years emerge— / a car ride through the country then the city then back, / the maple trees, flax fields, rivers: a distance / but so close that memories are puffs of air on my closed eyes / and so it goes, and so I go like everyone / existing in small rooms, waiting.
On the road, my husband didn’t know / this, my last night out. / Our bungalow always open / told no secrets.
You=negative 2 z-score: / the pink graphed line / a dying downward swoop. / Wasting: Can you / fit into a coat pocket? / Here the lake pounds questions / into the sand, / receding / and asking again.
The pity is not / that the century / has wound to a close but / that it’s whining / on and on… / Somewhere beyond / the pervasive rattle, / waves break on the shore.