the passing


I walked with white noise and gulls this morning.
A silver disk flashed once,
through its shutter of cloud,

and it’s twenty years ago,
in a blur of night.
The sea slurs and curdles.

Your boat is a bier for salted palls
and a diluted yellow raincoat.
It swallows light.

You wade through matt ground
and look up, unseeing,


of the taupe wind, a sail
free from its rigging.

Midday I found you,
in an underneath place,
your night-eyes staring.

I put you in an album
where it was dark and quiet,
but never quite closed the cover

for fear of trapping you
in delayed exposure.


Sun seeped into the pages
and bleached your eyes black,
playing alchemy

and dusk leaked from your pores,
filling the space with umber opacity.
Until one day, I took you out

and you passed,
weightless as a bobbing boat,
through an aperture in my fingers.