in memory of RVN
I once wrote, "a tumble of," and while I wasn't thinking of you then, I am now; you're alive during this half-lit hour, some gathering beneath where they say you are—it's something I only wish to believe in, but by now I predict rain. * Often, I am the kind of person who talks to pictures, to yours, and I mean no harm when I tell others how you won't talk back; there are trap doors in my apartment, and I think, maybe you're hiding there. * If I told you I miss how your voice pitched higher when you called to tell me: I look forward to you coming home, I'm waiting for you to come home—if I told you that, would you whisper through the silence that has begun to rest here.