There were a thousand stars
reflected in a schist rock bowl
of rain. One of them was mercy
though you claimed you didn’t
know which. You stirred them up
with a walking stick and blurred
your own face, insisting you would
recognize grace but that was so
long ago that all we remember
now is your spaniel nudging
the heavens with her nose
to clear a space to drink. I think
there are still a thousand stars
in that canyon fissure full of rain,
reflected in my cauldron of clear-eyed
skeptic’s brew. I hope one of them
remembers where I parked, can
reveal the score to our last comic
duet and, like you, will drift to the top
of this undeniable citadel of ghosts.
