In an uneven light
I see your face,

before turning,
becoming again

a ghost.

II

Again a ghost
becoming

again
in the half-eaten

light, when words
were things

rolled over.

III

In the half-eaten
light, when words

were things rolled
over in the palm

of evening, psalm
of morning,

until bruised.

IV

Psalm of morning
bruised, I try

to make it rain again,
a chattering

of grey, the pallor
of your face still

living, but no such
peace escapes

my mouth.

V

The pallor
of your face still

living, no such
peace escapes

my mouth. Yet
somehow,

perhaps by sheer
synechdoche,

I sever the pit
of a mango

from its fruit.

VI

Perhaps by sheer
synechdoche,

I sever the pit
of a mango

from its fruit,
as you once did

after we had gone
to the market

together.

VII

After we had gone
to the market

together, myself
at age twenty-two,

yourself at age twenty,
your honeyed hair

turned white
from radiation,

and you died
within a few months.

VIII

But you see, light
is uneven,

numbers take up residence
with air, ageless

letters pivot, voices once faint
now sing
in the wind, breathe
with the significance
of stars

all these half-remembered
conversations drop
from your sight

like heavy legs
into the blue river

Lethe.