his eyes wide and blue
bulging expressively
his sweater soft
it’s cashmere and it caresses tender surfaces
bundles of it gather over time at scattered oases
they are now mine
they are now my bundles
they smell of old clothing and mildew but he still is dressed by them
he is living in them
pointe shoes pound the surface of the stage
but look increasingly elegant
like my mother
their costumes glistening and frosted by a powdery film
of glitter and artificial snow
now Bob Dylan’s punctual strings resonate in my memory
he’s telling me to keep my head forward like Steve used to do
if I don’t look back
i don’t have to say goodbye