Beyond the moon， beyond planet blue

    and planet red， each day further

    from the sun she floats out toward

    the empty dark of X. Having done

    what she was sent out years before

    to do， she gave up sending even

    the faintest signals back to earth，

    to bend instead her shattered wings

    across her breast for warmth. It is

    late， he knows， and knows it will only

    go on getting later. He shifts alone

    in the late November light before

    her grave， as so often he has done

    these past five years， to try

    and finish what he knows to be

    unfinished business and must remain

    that way： this one-way dialogue

    between the self， and——in her absence——

    the mother in himself. Epilogue， perhaps，

    to what one man might do to heal

    the shaken ghost which must at last admit

    just how many years ago she logged off

    on her journey. So that now， as darkness

    drops about him like some discarded coat，

    old but useful， such as his mother used

    to wear， he takes it to him， much as

    she did， to ward¹ against the cold.