The day is grey when you go into the foghorn,
no longer hurting yourself nor your washed out eyes
the colour of bird feathers as they scope for bread
in the garden, where I put lights to nudge the night.
Foghorn like alarms in the old days when you slept
upstairs from where I wake to dulcet increase
of volume, of the sky sometimes, good and evil
together make up the grey today on your grave.
I left a letter, a trick learned from Forrest Gump.
I left out the bit about the beginning of
Inception, how we so loved the idea of thoughts
implanted, tipped into sleeping canals like rot
too sweet to be real. The foghorn. The gondolier
who collects your soul the moment before impact.