I followed your snow tracks to the ocean.
Where did you go? I hurdled iced driftwood,
slid and sloshed past snaggletoothed red fence, then
leaned against rusted guard stand that’s withstood
rages of snowstorms, rash summer torrents.
We have too. Those glazed, bare trees behind me
seem to mourn the dead grass, ghostly currents
before me stretching out through centuries
of endless fog. Before you left, you said,
It doesn’t matter, really. Can’t
matter.
Your voice seemed rasped in fog, emotion bled
from every cell, your flesh unleashed, scattered
across the room. I sat in shock. No salve
for you, I watched you go. I shouldn’t have.
Roger Armbrust
November 27,
2013
