To Greg on His Birthday

I hate that death separates us,

the hand that turns the page pausing,

poised,

as if to consider the weight 

of a single sparrow as it falls to the ground:

the impact, the shudder, the release.

Your death just one more sorrow

to bear, one more 

unbearable thing that is borne.

Because it has not found me yet,

though how often I have wished it.

I say this to you as if it is of no consequence,

but, truth is, it’s all I have,

my life as I know it.