This appeared in Staple.
If it isn't the roof, the plumbing's goes,
Or the showerhead, or the parakeet. Like that.
Sometimes the years of dry, furnace-forced air
will shrink the floorboards. What was glossy, grays.
Sometimes the one you turn to isn't there
in the bed; or perhaps she is, but gone
to ghost, and you can never be alone
more than you are right then, which is enough, thanks.
They told you nothing stays, claimed, as you found,
that change is what there is. But this is less.
Everything leaves, but not entirely:
the bird's cry from the elm tree high above
the dust of rooftrees laid down many moons
rouses the form whom you still try to hold.
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