Mourning Song

It’s too cold to swim but I still dip my feet

into what is now, somehow, September.

You’ve always disapproved of my wanting

music to play when I could be listening to

the sounds of the world, so I try to make you

proud now that you’re not here to look smug

about it. In other words, I thought of you, then

left my headphones at home. Bare-eared and

unused to it, I’m left alone with the moody

rumble of waves. I close my eyes to hear them

better under the various flying things: low,

panicked planes and bird-cries locked in battle

for sonic dominance. Gray gulls forever

the mourning doves of Rockaway park.

You died last year, and there is nothing I can do

about that either, what with the carbon copy of you

still walking the streets of Harlem, talking endlessly

of those same things we used to talk about,

but it’s different now. Don’t get me wrong:

even your ghost is gorgeous. I just can’t get over

the dying thing. This is the part that’s hard to explain,

especially to my girlfriend; you died and then went

on living. You died and nobody noticed, except

my hands, drawing lines in the sand which only last

until the next wave comes in. The next time I’m here

I will no longer be thinking of you. It can be that

simple. At home in my drawer: a pair of old

headphones. A broken pen. Your shape,

softer and softer now.