Caitlin lets me in the store
            where you had worked, offers
leather jacket brushed auburn

& creased at the elbows
            with wear. I had slipped
it in your backseat

like a letter while we lounged
            on the hood and trees teethed
a freckled sky. Like all letters

mistakenly addressed,
            it’s been returned to me.
In the pocket, a bracelet

you’d promised to keep,
            mother of pearl clasping
frail lines of blue beads

that kiss the silk lining.
            The pocket throws open
like a window in the pines

and refuses to clamp
            shut, even later as I kiss
someone wide-eyed

in the parking lot, ignoring
            the round stamp of seed
beads and baubles flashing

their ghost colors
            in my pocket, gold
blotting the stars.

We slip into
            the green as easy as light
on your wrist.

What did they say
            about the language
of the dead? Never ending,

an ancient, studded loop.
            Perceptible
as the Aurora ringing the edge

of a city. Does it translate
            to lamented lover, resurrect
their shadows large as trees?