Dear M

you wonder who I am —
well, I’m mostly music
with wine — and time
is a cravat for informal
occasions, such as

this, when you phone
late at night, catch
me by surprise,
and I imagine you

asleep and wishing for
tomorrow to fracture
your reality just a little bit
and you ask

for his number so you can
talk to him, as though
he isn’t dead —

for three years now,
and we went on
when you remained —

loyal, innocent, dropping
the leaves of your life
as though it is December
and a storm
with snow is moving
across the texture
of our descent.