B walks into the living room this next morning
& the first thing he says to me is,

How’s your heart?

I always struggle to know what I can’t see.
My need to invent a new Morse code.

Knock three times on my chest, wait

until a secret’s thumped back.

I’ve been avoiding writing this all day,
the open notebook following

the corner of my eye. The open notebook,
a small white landing strip calling
for the plane.

I can feel it, the poem in my throat,
the hot coal smoke behind my eyes.

I am afraid of the impossible task
of capturing your memory, starry sky I try
to trap in a thimble.

Your huge, celestial laughter.

How clovers grew in the cracks
of your voice.

A tunnel of flowers.

All I could see in my dream
was a tunnel of flowers,

the paper cup phone, the long taut string
cut.