what I remember: a country road, your wild
will to live far beyond the ordinary, the cold way

you darkened your eyes, cutting as people
often do with whatever they long to do

away with: that last meal with some specter
from your past, the sharp glance burning

one or another 'almost' lover. Now, the only
wild seedlings in my life are in my garden —

they lay dormant, awaiting the moment I sprinkle
a few precious droplets from my favorite teapot,

regret slipping into the cracked earth again.
There is no victor that emerges. All is silent.