Touch of moth-wing, its sudden
appearance in a water glass;

a dove materializing on a soot-
stained balcony in the mauve hours.

Every day you try to remember
to pay attention so you might sense

that tremor in the air it's said
prefigures the passing of someone

you love into the afterworld: a face
that slipped last night into your dream, 

a version from youth but wearing the same
clothes in which you saw them last. Almost

near enough to catch the scent of a favorite
cologne, almost near enough to touch the plastic-

made-to-look-like-shell button on a cuff, adjust
a collar folded the wrong way. Which is all

of us: holding a styrofoam cup of coffee
and bagel in a paper bag, standing in a corridor

checking watches or phones, schedules
for the train; passing through the revolving

doorway or stepping onto the platform,
not pushing, saying You first or After you.

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