we come to pretend
death has lost
our address

but there is something
lonely in this
and so we must

pull in as many
with us
as we can

tie them to us
like crocheted scarves
or unrolled

balls of yarn
cat-chased across
an unclean floor

but the kite
will not fly without
the string

and as we cannot
fall up
we climb

counting off the
everlasting list
of things to do

what we intend
for each of us
and them

until the last thin
knot the tightening
of the final fist

laughing
head thrown back
if we have sense

among new
blades of grass
small things
move to near
destinations
that may seem
to them as distant
as stars across
the ocean
night

in the dark
the walls
of the room
your hand across
the breakfast table
the memory of
your lips
moving with
my name

sparrows
on the phone line
hundreds of them
only appear
each one
to be the same
watching blades
of grass

silence of
afternoon light
the cat sleeps
in a patch
of sunlight
curled around
her small bird
dream

outside
branches move
wave new leaves
like the greeting
hand of a friend
and though
you are not
here
you are

Michael McNeilley
© 1997