I’m trying to get over you but in
not so terrible a way.

A certain smell reminds me of fall
in Wisconsin and all the things that
might have been but weren’t
for similar reasons. A weathered bear
taught me “what short wicks we fuel
with our blood” which is
the everyday problem compounded.

If I don’t speak to you as much
it is not out of hatred but love.
Love like hands deep in the mud
searching in vain for a lost boot.

You are homesick and so am I
which maybe makes it a little
bit easier. I had a fumbled
moment saying the things I dreaded
saying to someone else. The words
hung still in the air and I
circled them, noting the patterns
and textures, wandering the halls of
this old art museum somewhere
down the river.