We are now eating tomato sandwiches under a perfect sky.
Slurpy with mayonnaise on ten grain bread,
they’re not as good as those which he makes
with Hellman’s, garlic, oregano
and crusty Italian loaf,
but still delicious in their summeriness
like these full-leaved hills,
and fat, floppy white hydrangeas,
are so full the breeze embraces them
with small possessive shakes.
A goldenrod glimmers. I wander into the forest
and find him resting in a nest
of baby’s breath, his cigarette’s flicker
saying in ash language–
You never were really alone.
I bend to kiss
green moss and ash grey stone
