"Dear--
Your voice, broken as a body when you speak of loss,
of losing her.
Awash in the grief that comes I know when the one you love
lets go, and it's nothing you've done.
This morning I dreamed again of birds.
Happens all the time.
This morning I dreamed again of birds, blue, and dead, wings
lifted in a parody of flight.
And yes, I'd sworn off the birds, love,
and so they died, as any living thing might.
That's one reading, I suppose.
Another way of letting go after having held you once
for a while, content with the shape of what was.
Perhaps the birds were an algorithm myth.
But who knows what promise will rise or perish come morning.