Oh, but I could mourn you all day long,
the sky, a spool of undyed wool
only you’d know what to make of.

You once believed the moon pitch black,
a flashlight pointed at refracting coal.

You were a child, and I will never
have a child with you, that wasted
tenderness where might have lived a world.

On earth, it will matter little that we met,
our days like rivers at the mouth
of a sea so cold, so quiet, so blue.