I am not religious, but

the Sunday after you die
I lace up my shoes and run.

Leave my key in the bushes
next to the door. Isn’t that

what you would have done?
Running is the closest I’ve ever felt

to holiness: crazed beating
in my chest, hot breath on my tongue.

Like this body was made for something.

I run short and hard, down Riverside Drive
and back and I hurt all over. I hurt all over

and it is nothing compared to
how others are hurting. This pain

I control. This pain tampers
with time, makes the minutes

stretch out like taffy. These
precious minutes. This pain

sticks to your teeth. Me,
hundreds of miles from anyone

who knew you, and
you, already two days gone. Snow

melting on southern streets
beneath my feet. Steady

beats on wet pavement.  Are these
tears from this terrific wind or

my heavy heart? It is a clear February day
and I want to spread myself thin

across the pavement and wear
all black, not in mourning but so I can

more readily accept the gift
of the sun’s heat. I am not religious,

but I think I feel you with me
through the sharp silence. Something

in the way shadows play
on the frost-tipped grass.

I am not religious, but
who among us doesn’t search for signs?

Here I am listening to you
laugh across space

and time. Not miracle,
just video. Still—that look

in your eyes. As if to say:
this earth, this time,

is sacred. These rocks are
reverence, these people,

a prayer.