The apartment is humming. There’s still room in the windows. I’m out of mail. Maybe the mailman came early.

Here: where his tongue used to swim into mine, / where I wonder / how we held our breath / for so long.

The riverbank crumbles faster.

Only our shadows hold in the flow.

The picnic table might come through the bay window this time,

to remind us of when the five of us used to sit together on its form.

It wasn’t that I wanted to be left alone, but when you’re lonely long enough it gets harder and harder to let someone into the bubble you’ve made for yourself.

What I’m asking God to turn into flow of honey

is my intravenous grief that I’m knitting into prayers.