In the stick-count for the song
of knowing you're gone,
glancing up at where you lived when you lived here,
I see you, suddenly alive
and nearly smiling.
Stop and hold my breath and watch the way you used to be.
The full moon makes
our faces shine
like over-ironed polyester,
then disappears
behind the clouds,
and leaves me under empty rows
of night windows.

We could walk to where these streets
get pulled together-
a blinking line with gravel shoulders squared towards an end.
Where the radio resounds
from doppling traffic.
Where the power lines steal esses from the hourly news.
De-pluralize
our casualties,
and drown the Generals out in static.
We'd turn and watch
our city sprawl,
and send us signals in the glow
of night windows.

But you're not
coming home again,
and I won't
ever get to say,
"Remember how...I'm sorry that...I miss the way...Could we..."