Like viruses that speak to one another, signaling
small growths, the dead announce themselves
in silence. They orbit the absence of my figure
in the mirror. Among them, I approach you. I let my voice
pull you toward sun dividing waters. Fragrance
of butcher’s broom climbs backward up memory’s
fresh leaves, as if water pools on the other side
of this reflection. You accompany the movement
of dawn. Though you are out now among the hyacinth-moths,
a flicker of late embers between earth’s symmetry
of shade and song—the seam between slight vibrations
of chatter. I have carried you in dream.