Dear Elliot, you are long since gone And I am not sad anymore.

The twin speakers are breathing Your hushed lyrics into the room

Whose words possibly came to you As you walked up and down the main

Street, that sidewalk’s widening cracks Became a metaphor for your life.

I arrived at that point too. My fall, however, was broken by dandelions caulking the gaps.

You had your Angeles and I have had mine. They became one when they gave us utterance.

Today, sun is a bursting orange on a blue plate. Held up to it, my nightmares are laughable.

Yours, however, killed you. The tape has stopped playing.

Your voice continues to uncoil Into the ambiguous silence. Either/Or.

Is crashing in through the four windows, Is spreading over the four directions Is ripening the four vegetables and fruits, Mango, tomato, persimmon, squash.

Is burning silence into the wood Is providing wings to the shadows, Thermals for a gliding red tail hawk, And halos to these passing imaginings.

When I run out of vacuities To narrate or when you had Enough - you nod your head in denial But mon chere, I know that point Shall come too, we shall recede into Either The regretful waving of two adjacent tree branches Or The cawing of two heckling crows in them.