I had never met a mind so perfectly
intoxicant, so redolent, so like a grove
of orange trees. Blossoms dazzling, but shaken
easily, maybe never to become fruit.

Some days our estrangement seems a simple case
of love cut down to fit
mature and separate realms, shaped by no-fault
circumstance, as way led on to way.

Other times I see my lips pressed hard in the judging look
we hated on our mothers, when boys brought home
did not remove their hats, nor ask to be excused.

If I try to see my friend from higher ground
she’s wearing her fawn-colored coat outside the sorry
pizza place. Or sobbing under the bridge.

I see her waiting for the green line early, freshly
showered, starting again.
How she really tried. How she cannot help it.