for Tony

Early November. Fog
like a tarp
over gray water. And how strange to see them: grackles
quiet in the sugar maples your father
stood beneath for a photograph
in the final week of his life.
(Slicked back hair.
Hounds-tooth jacket).
Again, it comes
unbidden—

St. Kate’s Episcopal. January.
Rafters and stained glass in candlelight,
and your Uncle Logan’s eulogy
crackles from the pulpit
like sleet over jasmine leaves,
while you, my friend,
unwitting ambassador of sidelong glances,
sit stunned in the pew below.