PAMPHILET n.2

in the night opaque i hear your voice.
not even that. your doorknob

turning. your bare feet padding
across the floor, the exact inflection

of your soles on the ground.
when i chase the song it melts

into air. once you were solid;
kore, now, you’re gaseous memory

thin as juniper smoke
slipping through the cracks in the walls.

i must believe that memory is still
matter. you understand. how else does one

grieve? ask the mayfly, who knows better than i
the stoneblue halls of Without.