After The Eulogy

things adhered — on the hard drive and in
the way shadows survived — as when I browsed
the vacation to Holguin and six photos
from somewhere I’ve never been ping ponged
the software’s interface.  Or when you now
dead four years reappeared.  A ghost
of black and white photos — in the DNA.

It’s impossible to explore a foreign
road before your death without encountering
a dozen places I’ve never been.  And may never
go.  May never see, except in photos
as though I’m invited to dinner somewhere
and the photo albums are pulled out
with the cherished bottle of Cherry Brandy.

Look, see where I’ve been. 
See what I’ve done.
See what survives. 
Long after I’m gone.

The Sky

Is falling
the sky won’t fall —
that blue —

let’s vote and form
a union to demand
deeper hue from sky
that’s trembling —
leaves in wind —

the sky won’t profit
the sky won’t cry
and I am running

in a crowd
of rain and clouds
forever feeding from
the emotion trough

the sky is falling
and I won't run.