you were born in July

married in Manhattan.

the gothic cathedral, i could see 

from the window. 

although you’re gone 

it’s still there 

us in the white house. 

or the chapel, misty grass lawn,

rolling hills,

and even if you missed a day,   walked 

and didn’t breathe, it’d always stay. 

you standing; suit and tie. begging eyes, 

pale pacific winds, tugging 

at your sleeves,

slow-swimming ducks, walks we’d take. 

at the edges of beaches. down

cliffsides. washed, 

in white twilight. even if you cut your hair.

if you cleaned the mirror, i’d still look. 

i’d see us. in kitchens. 

on Thanksgiving mornings, waking up.

brown sugar coffee, on strolls

through the forest.

i’d still write,

i’d think of someplace 

like North Carolina 

where grocery stores had wide aisles 

you’d look up, from your

papers, i’d wait

in trains