Then, shooting those painterly marshes,
                                           I saw you:
a nude silhouette reflected
                                      in tidal pools,
sunset in every direction.
                                 Of course, the salt
transmitted your soft voice       
                           across the ocean.
The fishermen paid no mind to the similarity
                     between the dying fish
and your starring role in The Rite of Spring.
               I knew very soon
I’d feel you in the melting of my bones

when,
           waking up somewhere
on a tree-brushed train, your body,

still warm,
                catches up to kindness
knocking at your skull from the inside.

Chalk it up to
                      breathing, chalk it up to
the sweat of past mistakes
                         that soaks the grass, drowning
the wrong years.

                              The shutter clicked and clicked.