Geoff is dead and a piece of the sky is missing.

He’d listen to the jagged jumble of my life and help the pieces fit. Fourscore-years-and-ten is no one’s idea of short-change, but still an absence gnaws. The fractal islands spread apart.

There is order of a kind. The straight edges of a frame, parts of a coast, a peerless sky. A town of churches, cobbled crannies. Fruit spilling ablaze where the sun catches a tree. I have put in place the narrow alleyways and there are flowers, now, beyond the tower. Yet some part is wildly absent.

What is that emptiness where nothing seems to work? All of it made by my hand, but still the birds are singing beyond the picture. I cannot taste the fruit.