I see your sparkling eyes again
like the dying flames
of a fire
I try to speak to you about the Congo River . . .
at its mouth in Moanda . . .
I try to sketch the Missouri for you
pitching itself into the Mississippi . . .
I try to revive for you
the concerto-cries of these migrating birds
as they swoop through depths of sky . . .
I try to tell you the Sahel’s true name
I try to trace your unspoiled face with my fingers
I try, I try, I try . . .
but you are not here . . .