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we drove up for goodbye, arrived too late;

in your place,

a small seashell,

once-capable fingers taped round

whorled terrycloth

by a hospice nurse i will never meet.

behind a slack jaw, cheeks warm as new bread,

exhaling decay.

i miss you

but you would hate this, amy, buzzing bee,

stuck inside a candle snuffer, and you, nothing but flame.

i speak through a prison-break mound under blankets,

soft nestle of placeholder waiting it out,

to you;   

i whisper in the whelk of your ear godspeed, my truest sister/friend,

as if you might be on some distant shore, able to hear;

as if god or i have anything to do with any of this.