You must remember
there is a pair to almost everything.

The soft coal pupils, the chambers of the heart,
the wild limbs, the teeth and all their brothers
the fingers, the toes, the hidden bundles of sinew
now, more like strings than cables.
I don’t have the memory for the maddening miracles.

I got your hair right.
Saying its phrase over and over,
“She drops her copper into my lungs.”

I lost your eyes,
your freckles, and myself,
having nothing real to cling to
sunk through your bones
into the dirt, turned to clay.
Your lips, misplaced
along with a map of the West Coast,
showing in the color of blood
routes into the sea.