Between

I’ve thought of pulling a bright leaf from the gutter
And sending it to you to say: this is how it feels.
By the time it reached you
It would be dust in the corner of an envelope.

As I’ve watched the widow next door prepare
To send her piles up in thick, stinking clouds, I’ve thought
Of how the cooling ashes shift and spread
Across the sky, how they don’t settle.

One thing leads to another – the spaces between
A pair of sparrows bloom and collapse with ease (a couple
Of periods, all that’s left,
From a letter about burning) – because its hard to say this
Is how.