Ichabod

When I think of him he slides into place
like a broken mirror put back together,
shining at me,
as he always could,
but it's that kind of smile.

I draped him in symbols,
blazing, he snuggled into them
your grandmother's blanket with its Sanskrit good luck
but you know, symbolism
bleaches away
its own light...

Silence, like a juggling ball
taken from our hands
and left in the air.