View Of The Dead

Overlooking frosted panes —

Out, over the bland concrete stables,

I try to see your face — in

Where the green mist collapses into

My narrow view, unfocused —

Looking through the walls,

And into your garden —

I try to reach out to what I think is you,

Before my eyes have time to dilate

And let the sun in some more;

Because then you’ll be gone.