Doing my best to remember
what's changed, I’m back
at the point before the point
when it happened:
a memory skirts the horizon
like a grace note.
Here is …
the colour of regret,
the geography of loss,
the physics of departure,
the thing that I was doing
just before the moment
you shouted for that knife
and here I am,
handing it over.
From here to wherever,
the flowers cling to granite,
assert themselves, flourish –
like a kind of relief.
