I owe you a eulogy. There wasn’t the chance to see you leave,
to hold you while still full, or even empty – to bear witness to
the bond between the two.
The wind plays tricks on the mind: that banging shutter sounds
like you letting the door slam. The leaves blowing off their limbs
sound like you in the bathtub.
In the morning I put a nail in the shutter and rake leaves.
In the evening I take the nail out, let loose the leaves.
Somewhere late in the night I will write the eulogy owed.