For Pauline

I.

Sounds I see:

a bedroom clock

and passing cars.

II.

A near-catch of

the clock’s tick

leaves me alone.

III.

Life becomes a

drunken waltz

so suddenly.

IV.

How does your

death fit with

these sounds, Pauline?

V.

You rest in

a picotte’s picosecond

turning red blue.

VI.

You–my first

true death–piqued,

pierced, and provoked.

VII.

In measured ocean waves

from the Cape or Rhode Island–

I will hear your sound in the dark.