three kinds of loss: a poem

The man with whom I loved some poems

Is losing his mind; three days ago

I suddenly saw how blue his eyes can be.

His words have come undone

From threads that tie him to the rest of us.


I’ve come undone from you, in time.

I’ve known for years how blue your eyes can be

But threads between us snag in branches

Out of reach; the kite I lost on Mission Hill

Last summer. I guess it’s still there. I could visit it.

Alone unfed inhabitant of our unlikely zoo.


I didn’t know him, if his eyes were brown or blue;

He died. I found out on the day

When someone said that growing older

Happens when we keep not dying.

Those of us who’ve faced that choice,

We know the weight of days on which

We find ourselves still here, tied down.

Rest well, my friend; I’m going to hope my eyes found yours sometime

In some ungodly hallway, and that it meant something.

‘someone’ in the poem is my dear friend and fellow traveler, Squirrel.

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