Seconds

And your whale skin, no
more or less desired, is
unattended but for the dementia of
moss and other soft creatures.

Words that fly for years;
falcons, or sharks, or deer,
that rarely land on comprehension and ears
in the jungle of the mind.

For a few breaths that are
but a moth in winter,
the sky on your face is blue
and cloudless.
....................................................................I miss you.