Beau Lys, the river’s breathing low,
carves your name in silver below the moon’s brow.
I follow the tremble of reeds where your laughter once slept,
barefoot on the glass of yesterday’s rain.
Every star is a syllable we never completed,
hung like a bridge between never and now.
I speak to the dark in the tongue of the loons—
they echo you back, a ghost of blue sound.
If dawn must come, let it come slow,
so your outline can linger in indigo smoke.