The old star maps, grainy

black and white, are wrong now.

Looking back, we read

them differently.


Everyone’s indignant

at your loss,

but it doesn’t mean they understand

what was lost.


Now I mustn’t speak of you,

must file your image away in musty

albums, between pages of journals,

in folders I never open.


The picture’s neater anyway

without your great arc,

your weird ellipse,

unaligned, individual.


Round black spot

ringed with white:

soon I’ll come around to believing

that you will never exist.