by Kelle Groom
for Mike Murray
I can’t understand the sound barrier.
Ray and I are required to be miles out to sea,
but we don’t have a boat.
It was just mind roar when you were falling.
I have the harpsichord king’s song
déjà vu feeling now. On the pier you can regard us
as one song sung to your body—an angel with four
thousand wings helped, parted you
like a crowd, like the crown of your red
hair. I needed a sound truck with amps.
After Ray poured you into the air, your bones
made a bright cloud over the ocean, then sank,
and you were a river for a while.