in memory of RVN
The line of trees. Row of lettuce in the garden. How you organized us in front of you for kisses. Attempts to slowly understand that what appears straight is constantly on the verge of ruining the story—in the beginning, once, safety, perfect picture of stop and start. In the end, madness, no line or row or kiss. Disappearance prior to death, not the other way around. And your birthdays, now simply hours we drink Limoncello. The edge of the table, horizon— I steady my glass but hope its shatter sounds like Andrea Bocelli's aria. And in the corner, a door; through the door, a box of miniatures I collected from your apartment, tiny things ashes no longer have use for. Mixed with these ashes, pieces of your clothing—no, only softness you left behind, close to nakedness but even more intimate than that.