I scooped up a mass of wet clay.
I doodled in the margins.
In the negative space of branches
I built whims and scenarios
and in the streaking weeks
of your dying I stretched open
the speck on the map, squirmed through
and we landed with a bounce
on the pine straw. Tang of resin,
wiggling campfire and jokes.
And we climbed the famous mountain,
and into the pool of the famous waterfall
we threw stones and listened
for an affirming plunk. The wind
sidled through the woods
until we arrived above the timberline
where the air became too fine,
slower, slow as lichen, and though
I was holding you close as a pulse
you got far ahead of me
and then into your hand I felt
the quick marble come.