(with respect to Gabriel García Márquez)
Through the glass, in the cold March breeze, flaps
a neighbor’s worn flag. Distance, like these bare branches—
white pine against blue sky—marks this corona,
this silver ring with dark heart. Loneliness is such I have
learned to look into the lens—that eye of defamation
in the hours before space made me miss the warm breath of another.
Somewhere a dog sighs on an empty bed. She has known all her days
this day would come. Sit with her. She is ready, willing,
will rest her head on your lap and speak with you in silence.
