I cannot imagine you in this, my world,
now. Time has stolen you from me
and you cannot belong.
I set off this morning to walk in the rain
and by the door suddenly, pulling on boots,
I forgot how to breathe.
These simple rituals, involuntary survival;
because; in spite; whichever.
Lungs pump rhythmically, keeping time,
for me, regardless, relentless, a clock.
Meg, 8/97.
For Hilary, who died young and far away.
