I had never met a mind so perfectly

intoxicant, so redolent, so like a grove

of orange trees. Blossoms dazzling, but shaken

easily, maybe never to become fruit.

Some days our estrangement seems a simple case

of love cut down to fit

mature and separate realms, shaped by no-fault

circumstance, as way led on to way.

Other times I see my lips pressed hard in the judging look

we hated on our mothers, when boys brought home

did not remove their hats, nor ask to be excused.

If I try to see my friend from higher ground

she’s wearing her fawn-colored coat outside the sorry

pizza place. Or sobbing under the bridge.

I see her waiting for the green line early, freshly

showered, starting again.

How she really tried. How she cannot help it.