Echo

 

he clutches his jasmine tea, says: 
how will you avoid becoming a river when you grieve? 

+
 
he pours cheese curds over muslin in raspberry dusk: 

I am forgetting the faces of others,
forgetting the sky, the water— 

a hum of wind scatters his voice like ashes. 

+

abandon my urn of matchboxes and beacons,
leave the floating city
where mirrors become gardens,
   
the fog of sandalwood and pipe tobacco,
the trees darkening into water—

 
+

you forget the way rivers forget.

-

I look into a mirror, as if a body—a light
switched off in a distant house—

as if the ghost would now return.