I waved at a bag pinned to a branch in the apple tree –
it caught me off guard – like a glimpse of Her
at a corner on Halsted as I rode a Nighthawk’s tail –
I waved and she waved as all the sticky bitters fade.
I waved at a bag pinned to an apple tree, flapping
below a near full moon and a contrail, and I laughed
at all the leavings, disarmed in a robe, slippered and new
to forgiveness, new to know that Eddie never left the war –
Never left highschool, never left his bludgeoned hope,
always thrashing in an apple tree, along a power line,
a squirrel run sagged long before a breaking.
Or to place a kiss on the cheek of the dying,
soft and sallow – the warm tip of grief –
is not to know an end. No, there is a bag in an apple tree.
There is an impulse, and all the sticky bitters fade.