Traces

This kind of missing makes ghosts
of every familiar place. Even forests
resemble her face. You go to the florist,
the café, the bookstore—finally, the coast,
where you think, finally, the most
painful parts of this year, the sorest
year of your life, will ease. The ocean’s chorus
softens what it can, and then you almost
see the sea for what it is. You’ll get over her soon.
Then you see her—faintly, but there—over the dune.