Surviving Inklings

You lose friends to both

death and unusually lively

withdrawal, as well as give

some up, as anticipated,

to misunderstanding. You

leave those you assured

you would not leave and,

too, people have left

you in silence and without

reason but presumably

because of your intensity,

which you have long heard

from friends, never lovers,

for whom it was the draw.

When you leave you rarely

think about those left, so

perhaps it is like that for

those who leave you:

typically no story, with

every tensile explanation

partial, each narrative

convenient, and changing.

You reserve the secrets

of theirs you remember,

pray occasionally for their

families, and praise silently

some whistle of generosity

you witnessed. You forget

the contours slowly, in

the long second leaving,

neutrality a structure

you learned to glamorize,

the way you have come to

imagine doors as rectangular.

Under limits of the boxy

entry, you think of cities

as grids, describe a bird as

the tint of ink, forgetting

that ink can be any color.