i find little scraps of you in the wind; when i had the whole bolt of velvet in my hands snatched away, night dropping like stage curtains; i grab these pieces afraid of the shock of loss, holding too tight, snatching, anxious for the next; but you were there in full then; and you are still here in fragments; even silence holds you; you have fed me too much, too little, none, and even more, if that’s even possible..,