In the seven days before he was gone, he came to me
three times in dreams. First at the shore in spring
then in fall, the last in deep winter.
He walks the edge of water, naked, symptomatic
manic contortions, those wild eyes. Yelling after
him, I bargain for him to return though he is
gone, has been for days.
In the second dream, air is sharp and crisp, frost
coats the windows, our breath indistinguishable
from falling snow beside a cabin where no leaves
have fallen. Silent, he never meets my gaze.
In ice, grey winterhe appears, a visceral scent
of smouldering cedar follows. I speak, but he
is silent, tonic. Standing by logs, back turned
I see him for the last time.
The absence of things familiar is all that remains
between us. When he walks away, I don’t call after
him, a dark assurance telling me he won’t return.