two moons have crawled across the surface
of gaia's crown and i am
still obsessing over your
death.
it's not fair, it's not real, and it wasn't
supposed to happen.

the news reporter didn't care and
the catholic priest didn't care and
the cops could give a **** less
just as we had expected.

heather, it just doesn't make sense.

and we all blamed it on ourselves
and then on the drugs
and then on the blue skies themselves
for letting the seams rip out from under you.

when we first met you held
that bottle with your teeth the way you hold
the sound waves so tightly
as you weave them round the corn stalks.

and when you bought me that pink wine
the day of the glitter, all i could hear
was your knuckles cracking blunt raps
and then edges of cans clinking
as the tower grew taller.
you passed out in your underwear that
night and i need to know
what did you dream of?

right before i lost my purse at the studio
a deer told me a secret that
i still can't understand, i still can
remember his hoof dragging like
morse code, and i think he knew
something, but mike was in the mudroom
and it was a hot summer.

and heather, it just doesn't make sense.

how could a sharp knife be bent by a feather and
how could an endless beach
suddenly disappear and
how could your embers be
bloated by water?

there are few people and things
that make you feel comfortable,
you know what i mean, like the
bowel comfortable, the clicking
into blackness, belonging through rebellion,
like every mistake and disaster
is a virtue because the night has birthed us that way.

i don't know if this has brought us closer
or farther, i don't know
what i'm supposed to tell you grieving
mother, i don't even know if it was
you in that casket, or a puffy scarecrow
doll they crafted out of fear.

just promise me i'll never forget the moon
that night at south harbor,
promise you will slip that sinister
smile, wherever you are,
promise we will smoke one more
dutch for your jamaica,

and i promise the streets of
southold will always breathe
your name.