Abundance

I don't know

if I.

can speak

or if.

you.

can hear.

I'll try.

while everyone is asleep

in chairs, the window couch

the floor.

and your measured breath

your managed pulse

the slow drip

from all these tubes

the wires taped to your

tissue paper skin.

i couldn't find the poem I wrote.

about that fishing trip we took.

and the stuff we didn't talk about.

and the things we did.

sequoias, hot rod fords.

I wanted to read it to you

and hope that you could hear it.

if I spoke close enough to your ear,

now that afternoon's delirium was gone

and you slept in morphine's embrace.

and I couldn't find the poem

so I just told you the story

and listened to your gentle breaths

peaceful now that all the machinery

was disconnected.

all the sleepers in the room

would awaken except for you.

I slowed my breath to walk with yours

until it became too slow for me to match.

you slept through another day

deep into another night

and in a moment imprecise,

you stopped.

a thousand miles south

a new baby seemed to wait

for you to pass,

struggling against entering

this world as much as you

fought not to leave it.

she's here now.

and you're gone.