death did a funny thing to you and me.


in younger years,

you were a friend to a boy who didn’t know

he’d forget who he was–

the kind of a friend that makes

you want to live in

something big,

something that,

for all our reaching,

just tickles our fingertips.


back then, God was a 

smoker and tobacco scents,

mixed with hints

of the city’s smog and

                                  two decades

                                  in a hospital bed,

let down its amber hair

on your long leather jacket.


God, I wish you were here.


the only comfort to

     the suddenly past tense

was how deeply your entire 

character burned into my memory–

I used to walk the bags 

under your eyes like a labyrinth.



some lowlife thief

stole the only photograph I had,

thinking I wouldn’t notice,

and replaced it with some

              muddled mosaic

of what might as well be

a stranger.


I’ve backed up ten paces,

I’ve squinted my eyes–

I’ve tried all the tricks


and I still can’t make out the picture.

I still can’t see you.




countless clay fragments

of people, people still with me,

each with edges so sharp they

refine each other,

are pieced into their own mosaic–



pieces of yours are in theirs;

I like to think you did this.


thanks, Paul.


2 thoughts on “Mosaic

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