I held your hand and
vinegar flowed from my eyes:
I watched your eyes dry

with death, with death, with death - you
mother, your eyeballs drying - the doctor
closing the silence, in the morning

mourning, ten years ago
I held your hand

sitting on the bus
before dawn, the traipse and tread
of cold commuters

sometimes I love you
more than I love myself but
pride and the sea change

in the breathing space
during dark winter mornings
I seek news of you

seeking the habits
to make my life full of rich
colours in autumn