The last of summer’s persimmon hangs tentatively on the ocean-tree.
When last heard your voice echoed through my tears,
soon turned to laughter, this before the heart’s slaughter.
The geese have nosed the fruit about the once-warm grass.
The day I told you about the ocean grey, thick with current,
yet smooth as glass.
I remember that, your molasses voice.
Such have turned our lives, our obituaries.
Where once there was love there is nothing but
the cold clang of masts,
the first chill of autumn,
and everywhere, even in the mirror, the awful dappled green of your eyes.