he was, and now his absence is,
most real. the edges of my eyes
keep thinking that they see him, but
he’s gone where individuals must go —
and all of this means nothing, really, now.

he liked spinoza. once, he said he read
the ethics on vacation in his youth;
he loved the spare geometry of truth
and kindness, there. but now his seat lies bare
as waves indifferently resume their stroll