still

right fist

aimed, like a slingshot

above the clouds

at apollo’s open chin-

before he

conducts another somber tune.

grief built like a fire

burning in a bloodied right fist:

broken frames

packed bags

a box-

“trash”-

empty perfume,

empty bottles,

a wrinkled, folded sonogram.

coconut breeze-

it was your favorite-

hangs over the bed,

still,

over your side,

a distant specter.

the fist once aimed

stared back, openly,

empty.

sun kissing the crown

of their would-be assassin,

before being swept,

by drifting clouds.