Goodbye is a wispy old thing
dissipating on the wind
like the dust of a demolition
or the fading of a memory.
Words don't come as they once did,
spinning threads to the future;
don't arrive with glossy sheen
or reassure, or fortify.
And when the dust settles
the wreckage remains
lying heavy, like an oil spill
over every shoot and leaf.
Perhaps my gift is silence
after the crash.
