My watch can mimic a compass.
Sighting the sun at twelve,
Hidden between the hands,
Halfway to the hour,
A line
Envisions itself, insisting
It’s near to north.

Clouds crumbing, crumbling,
Snapping shut against the sun.
Light crepusculates,
Crashes their convergence,
Conquered.
Shadows stutter, slip sideways.
Directions all demolished.

Absence and dysphoria,
Anger and depression,
Fail to foil four decades’
Invention of intimate devotion.
Death
Destroys her body but she
Stays still my true north.


		4 October 2023