And he had spoken my name, said I want to go with you—
it was then I remembered I was using his old flannel jacket

for a pillow on my unmade bed, lofted as it was
in a high red cedar, where I was living for the farm

seasons, that second year out there, the reds
of his jacket bright in the dark of the unelectrified tree

house—   I stared up through an unfinished window at the
peak of the roof for a long time, then suddenly desperate

reached for my phone, and found his number—
I tapped out a message—   I love you, M, I miss you. . . .