Boyer, pull the mic down.
Down?
OK.
"Your head had lodged in my brain.
Clay-colored sparse hairs pasted to your brow like veins.
A bee sting is no more sudden than my sense of loss
was upon waking though you'd been dead for a decade.
The dream, I'm guessing now, was triggered by clumsiness.
I bumped the armoire the day before.
The hand-blown vase in the shape of a squash blossom
tipping from its perch at the top.
I'd watched its descent--
as slow as a body falling from a building, paralyzed as someone
at the window of an adjacent building."