DAGNE FORREST

Addressing A 821

“Clogged only with Music, 
          like the Wheels of Birds,” 
          ~Emily Dickinson, A 821

You are a fragment, imped
like the scrap of time
stolen with a dear friend
in a golden state
one winter, stitched together
briefly, by a ragged
cross-country flight,
a patchwork of days
in the same time zone,
face to face, only
a handful of hours for us
alone, no family or distraction
late on a Sunday afternoon
when most doors had closed,
the usual distance between us
collapsed like pale paper folds
or wings, one over the other
for mere hours, piecing
snippets and shards,
shaping understanding
into a tenuous thing
we’d later know
only as possibility.