I look for you.
I know you are dead
but I look for you.
An irrational act,
but I look for you.
Not in a city taking up space,
you’ve timed out of space,
but in a peripheral time,
the suburb of memory
where dead friends live.
I remember them, at least try to,
I offer them refuge from absence.
Memory,
a 3-star motel built on quicksand,
a provisional shelter for the dead.