may 23rd, 2009. he wrote to me and sent me this poem:

We weren’t exactly children again,

too many divorces, too many blood panels,

but your leaning into me was a sleeping bird.

Sure, there was no way to be careful enough,

even lightning can go wrong but when the smoke

blows off, we can admire the work the fire’s done

ironing out the wrinkles in favor of newer ones,

ashy furrows like the folds in the brain

that signal the switchbacks and reversals

of our thought and just as brief. Your lips

were song, your hair everywhere.

Oh unknowable, fidgeting self, how little

bother you were then, no more

than a tangerine rind. Oh unknowable

other, how I loved your smell.

– Dean Young

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