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.