The line of trees. Row of lettuce in the garden. How you
	organized us in front of you for kisses. 

Attempts to slowly understand
that what appears straight is constantly
		on the verge of ruining the story—in the beginning,
once, safety, perfect picture of stop and start.
				In the end, madness, 
			no line or row or kiss.

Disappearance prior 
	to death, not the other way around. And
your birthdays, now simply hours 
			we drink Limoncello. 
The edge of the table, horizon—
		I steady my glass but hope its shatter 
				sounds like Andrea Bocelli's aria.

And in the corner, a door; through the door,
	a box of miniatures I collected from your apartment, tiny things
ashes no longer have use for. Mixed with these ashes, pieces 
			of your 
						clothing—no, only softness
you left behind, close to nakedness but even more
intimate than that.

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