That morning, you told me
you were terrified of poetry
as a child.
You told me stories
of vines, stories of the things
that continue to remain. I spent
the following days imaging
the dark circles
left in the woods
behind your house,
looking in.
*
They were like tall flowers, bruised
in the sunlight, darker from dawn to dusk,
repeating.
I asked you many questions.
Still, the story returned: your hands,
like mounted birds,
your hands,
like leftover fields that
could never stop turning.
*
You pictured me
in a carnival-esque setting, circa 1946.
You never explained why, but
I could imagine: the gray tones,
the dust, the leftover pollen
from what could only have been
cremation.
*
These are thoughts I left you with,
your mother and father,
their bodies spinning in orbit
like a cloud,
like nothing more than a disintegrating sunset,
the receding tide, reaching
for whatever comes next.
Writing about receding stars.