Ed, you never told me.
At the center of my life is a secret.
Nothing follows the simple story.
The categories are empty and discarded,
caught in the tree branches lining the creek.
His death is a trapdoor opening.
A new place to put your pain in.
He disappeared in the dead of winter, but green was already everywhere.
The world is born
with the erasure of the things we think we need.
In a dream
you are saying that the dripping walls and crumbling roof are fine.
It is me who doesn’t understand.
I have to get used to this.
In fact I have to learn to love it.
Ed, you used to sing to me:
When we have found the place just right,
we will be in the valley of love and delight.