The eternal nowhere comes to mind.
Domain of formulas and variations,
the way a kite tugs at the rein of springtime

    (it reminds me of your dress against a pale blue wall,
    its ruched edges knifing through the dusk).

Once you sent me sugar and cigarettes,
the box with a painted-on ribbon,
shade of red and a perfect seam.

I was expecting that.
I knew you would.
Why else do we talk about chapels and
other instruments of precise emptiness?

    You said there are few things in life that …

Now I realize that only a handful of people will
fly a kite successfully in their lifetime.
Hands too heavy, unwilling.

And I remember that you kept fixing your dress,
that it was always making you unhappy.