Most of us, I think, have people we see
and push through a crowd to touch.
Most of mine are Andrew. There’s a stage sword in his closet,
biscuit and mashed potatoes on a red diner tray.
At nineteen, he’s happiest with his head out the window
of a friend’s car — a friend like Henry, who came over
the morning he died to drink orange juice. I am trying
to see the works of lives instead of my life’s work,
which yesterday was waiting for the obscenely silver
pipe to produce hot water, and then it never coming.
Later, boarding the train unshowered, I watched
a child carefully peel foil from her snack.
When you are also a goshawk who can’t sleep
until a soft leather hood is slipped over your head,
the death of one possibility is not so bad.
It smells like a living hide or a maw mid-hunt.
