That which is beyond our reach

remains with us. And do we hold

enough memories to feed ourselves

after we are alone,

so alone?

I do not see the world as the crow flies,

but as the dog sniffs:

first here, then there, and after,

over there.

Suffering takes the shape of the vessel,

forms itself to fill the constant spaces

to the edges,

each breath delivered up the line,

like coal cars rocking slowly

to the surface.

Your wasted body, slumped

and folded against itself,

will rise — I know it — above this,

and the you, which suffered for no reason,

we will draw around us

as the light fades.

Tonight, once more I send a prayer out

upon the water

like a folded paper boat

and wonder how long

it can remain afloat.