On the way out, I gripped his arm, squeezed, let go.
He was talking to another black suit
—we were all black suits for the funeral—
and his bicep shifted in my grip,
lax. (Had he been ill?) We smiled, nodded.
That was all, and, for old friends,
sufficient. Outside the inn, peonies, those
great nodding heads, unstable bobbers, climbed
the wall and spilt onto the roof, storming the inn.
“I didn’t know peonies could do that,” I said,
and my wife, marveling with me—red, pink,
and white petals stippling the bricks on which we stood—
replied, “They can’t.”
We parted the dark dull leaves,
and considered, in the shadows,
a hidden trellis, hung with green pots on green
hooks, and hundreds of neatly twisted green wires.
The inn opened behind us, murmuring “We must, soon …”
“Yes, must,” and reluctant to be seen
seeing, we stepped away from the green wall,
the impossible possible once more and beauty, in perspective,
beautiful. All afternoon and into evening,
I considered my house, car, wife, mirror—
close then distant, distant then close. All afternoon
and into evening, I placed myself before them, grieving.
