March rocks us in its hammock
of purple sky. Snow retreats.
Thunder has not yet cleared its throat
and found a voice. Silence scours
the tin kettle of earth.
At my desk now, I think of my friend
who has vanished from the earth.
All morning I have been reaching for her with
this noun, that verb, but even the most delicate
sentence blunders against her absence
and comes unraveled. What are words, but
vapor? If I could eat with her–
a peach, some bread, a bit of cheese,
I would ask her what she’s learned.
Driving at night, you cannot hear
the swell of traffic traveling
in the other direction,
but you can see headlights
scribbling out a journey.
And you wish them well.