The morning aspen in their gloves of light.
Maybe I come closest to myself when I’m with her.
Which is why, right now, it’s unbearable.
In vibrations too subtle for me to register,
The earth moans and sings inside me.
You’d make coffee nervous, she had said.
Memories constantly pouring out
In front of me as though from a busted slot machine.
Twilight deer spotting the hilltop
Like new buds on a branch. The evening aspen
are weighted with shadow. And someone’s still staring
at a photo. Mouthing, Come back for me.
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