Glass bowl with pink swirls
Your glass bowl with pink swirls moves a little
whirlpool, still—reminds me of your last, small
desires—to dabble a hand in water,
playing the boundary notes of here and gone,
testing its uncertain surface for answers,
the beneath of which none of us knew.
To perceive the statue-blank of your eyes
seeing nothing and everything, to watch
the loop of your thin hand in its final
benediction, or to sit at your feet
with my hot cheek tilted to meet the roll
and stroke of soft fingers, was to be
most steady and most moved by your tender
figure-of-eight infinitive. That keepsake.
