I
First, your voice—sprung, cracked.
Delicately. Like batted
eyes flirting with gods.

II
Your hair leaps from eye
to book to grass. Even
lilies kiss the breezed strands.

III
August, oil-painted
to sunburnt windows, worships,
then flees your laughter.

IV
Unheard words grieve your
absence from autumn night—less
gone wrong, less felt right.

V
Tchaikovsky exacts
silence, omits you, close
and alone beside me.

VI
Moons lonelier than
winter trace the blue constraint
of wish-shadowed lips.