You’re going through your memories, wrapping
them like fragile immigrants, the crystal
glass you raised behind the screen, the paintings
I imagine you to own – virtual,
and trying to be virtuous, I wait.
Your flattened petals tumble out of cards;
at first, you couldn’t leave, poor Babbo’s heart
was revving far too high. You’ve had it hard,
now you talk to me of coffered ceilings,
say every cracking wall will be knocked down;
soon there’ll be an empty plot, belongings
stored away. Then, you’ll settle in that town
in redbrick dust and decks and varnished beams.
And I can join you only in my dreams.