Why
are you gone?
Someone
has left
a sign here,
a sign there.
Something
is done here,
undone there.
There
is work
I shouldn’t read,
which is a prelude.
I imagine you now
like the aurora
australis, infinitely
south and beyond
the air, and cold
to the living;
but warm, and
your movements
governed by
the breath of the sun,
of which you know
nothing.
It is a theory,
like reincarnation.
My imagining
cannot make it so.
What is there now
that I can do
for you? I imagine
I hear you answer.
