To a Lost Friend
Saying goodbye, it really did rant bad.
The frame around - just guts and snapping,
quick and scratching for the furthest point,
saying not too much but much too still,
the insides of us left, with good parts shivering.
And when it did, the faulted smell
of places too close to our heads, said ill things,
the spoke of which, turned others still
to drive the gap with
and cover us all.
I made a pair of gloves for us,
with itchy wool, not right maybe,
but one for you and one for me,
where threads, on violent winds, become
a way to hold your hand still.
