i am going through
the pictures of last year, Sam
you played too much violin
by the street; once you played for an old man
who sat, dwarfed by exhaustion and sipped tea with me.
i understand why you had
deep-dark clouds;
your eyes
were so out of my reach
one picture
shows all your instruments
and books-
they're singing to me. funny.
you remember, your voice?
not as volatile as those clouds.
i am telling you,
i took the time to hear you, honest.
remember the shawl?
i took out thorns and shiny gravels from it once,
i couldn't tell you, you were so paranoid
about moving
sailing and everything
i wish there was time enough in one season
i would discuss our son's name.
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