After a Year
Is it an extravagance, this grief?
Is it clean, is it purely itself?
Would I feel it less if he’d been
ready after the treatments
or if he hadn’t written in the black-and-white
speckled notebook I bought him,
‘Nothing else to try…how, when?’
What if he had dreamed
death as light on a window sill,
shorebirds running at a wave?