After we find out
we accumulate hours.
Hour two, I ask her name.
Hour four, we discuss
our sexual histories,
the precise, fleshy details
as the moment requires.
Hour six, we make plans
for tea on Thursday.
Hour seven, we rage about
the other’s worth, say
‍I love you and you deserve
more and so do you and
we mean it. We try not
to destroy our memories.
When I go too far, she is
kind in her pivot. Hour thirty,
I puke into the sink. It’s grief,
she tells me; there is no
escape. Hour fifty-two,
my hand is shaking. Happy
Lunar New Year, she says.
Hour sixty, and I finally
sob on the stairs as
I zip my coat. Outside,
a few snowflakes float
down then up, undecided
in my little beam of light.
The stars are in their
correct places, high and bright 
and I squint into the sky. 
I walk towards the golf course,
right up to the edge of
darkness, but stop short.
A sound: coyotes,
screaming in all directions
against the owls, frogs,
so loud I cannot fathom
the wildness, right there
beside my silent home.
Coyotes, coming closer,
and I join them, howling.
He is gone, and the world
wants the world back.