Susan Denning

Landscape Without Figures

disperse. When you die, your death

swims around the lake. There should be

a color to paint the sky when someone

forgets your name. There should be

a path of life reserved for the wandering.

I might have known you better, if

I wasn’t so attched to my own weather.

Remember me, I said, back when we

were alive? Those were unkempt days.