This warm winter urges 

the fertile earth—stray spears 

of green, incipient buds, mud.  

It is almost the season of your death.

For a while, you were busy

and then you were dead.

You used to sit in this chair, backbone

easing into your vodka, edges blurring 

into dusk.  You used to be warm.  

You used to know God like I know 

the rasp of my own secrets. 

I thought my emptiness was a disease—  

When we kissed, we were two 

vessels creating a vacuum— 

No wonder you did what you did.

One night a doe hurled herself 

onto my hood—barrel body 

skidding into my windshield, moon-eyes 

terrified, broken legs kicking, staggering 

into dark woods to die alone.

Yes.  That is exactly how it was.