I was trying to forget a line by Walt Whitman
in the back of a taxi on the hottest day of the year.
You looked like a ghost, but more real
to life than you ever did before you died.
You were an emergency in red lipstick
as always. You poked me in the arm
and giggled at some private joke.
The same one you always told yourself
when you were nervous.
But that's where the dream ends.
Like tall buildings reflected in other buildings
because there is nothing else to see
except a narrow thread of blue the clouds
cross when the light turns green.
I was trying to forget before it was too late
to remember what it was you wanted.
What it was you wanted
me to understand.