I knew you were running out of time,

and you knew it, too.

You always knew best.

You always knew everything.

The one who couldn’t read or write.

Your last words were well thought out.

A vision you foretold.

“Stay away from him.”

“He’s no good for you.”

“Walk away.”

Words of wisdom before

they took your lung.

Should have,

could have,

would have.

But I didn’t.

I see you in the majesty of the star-dotted stratosphere.

And when the clouds darken the ominous skies,

I see you.

Among the trees or the whispering wind or the last

fluttering of the butterflies,

I see you.

When a young child flies by me on a bicycle

or chases after an errant ball,

I see you.

I once saw you on a train, causing my broken heart to

spasm and spill out all over me.

I saw you just yesterday in the Judean desert

and at the bar, downing a cocktail.

And when that bucking ibex locked eyes with

me, yes, oh yes, it was you that I saw.

Every so often, I see you in the ocean.

Sometimes, the ocean is me—calm and tranquil until

I see you—

and then I am a rip current, plunging under, way, way out of reach.

I packed up the photos, stored the first place trophies,

and stashed away all that would remind me.

But still,

I see you.

A nonet starts with nine syllables.

The next line; it goes down to eight.

The longer the nonet goes,

the harder to make work.

Like life, I suppose.

It starts with birth

ends with death.

Make it

work.