Gary Raymond

I had not thought of you

in some time, like a book

that changed everything

which you will never read again.

But there, oddly pressed

between some bills we never

paid: an ink sketch of a bridge

lashed across a stream

that bubbles with stepping stones

in some kind forgotten garden.

And in the corner,

emerging from a geyser

of turf,

your name,

written like a lady,

like an echo through my trinkets.