Ben Schulman
Nightsong
under moonlight
with little rocks
by your side
the whole world
draining from the Mississippi
here, on God’s alluvial plain
where the sea begins to see
is where I saw myself, here slinking in and out of orbit
as you’ve been
slinking in and out of orbit too
asking ourselves
“did we fill enough books?”
how many lists did we write
as we carved your name
into the city
did we make all the preparations to box your voice
expectant like a crib in this autumn
as in that autumn desperate
to place
the same sound and light captured in a park
in child twilight
in that perfect nightsong
that you left to play forever