The Chase

The last dream I have of you is winter trees and running at cars.
You were snowflake and greens, something like conifer—
pine, or yew, or maybe it was pining. Last night

I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t paint you against my lids again
and hold you in the grip of hours pressed into blinking.

No more of your gentle stoop, chest too heavy to hold you
upright against days too heavy to keep you breathing. I was present,
pieced together in dust motes dancing on your skin.

I wanted to paint your silence with syllables and rain.
But this was your moment, darting at the passing green and black
frames and wheels like a wind. I don’t know what you are chasing—

only it was beautiful and slowed. And strange, for you
to be at once this mess of fierce and fire and still lovely to the bones.
But that was always how I remembered you, when I took the time.

Out. In the night. Chasing streetlights like fireflies.