You came in a dream, yesterday —
The first day we met you showed me
your dark workroom off the kitchen,
your books, your notebooks.
Reading our last, knowing-last letters —
the years of our friendship
reading our poems to each other,
I would start breathing again.
Yesterday, in the afternoon,
more than a year since you died,
some words came into the air.
I looked away a second,
and they were gone, six lines,
just passing through.