Loss is cruelest to the tongue, shards of scorch in rancid oil, lemon gone flat at the back of the fridge, or the bent tine of a fork dragged across the lip to add a bead of one’s own blood, suckle of rust and salt of the torn flap. For years I mourned departures with swiftly dilated views, but this one burns through every pore. Slash and sear drain all trace from what I flail to keep. How many seams must I stitch up quick in the skin of the fading print to keep the wild hyacinth aglow around the impress of our steps? And how many hands do I need to catch the mossy spritz from the whelm of icy falls? Quick, quick, give me something light and sweet, three dozen kites lifting surfers from the beach. Oh give me back those two white peaches we couldn’t eat.