Gold glints for a moment
On the black mosaic floor
Of a hotel bathroom, a place
Of random objects. It gleams again
Not true gold, nor even bronze:
Base metal: a twenty cent hair-slide.
I pick it up and snap it shut,
Remembering how such a slide
Once caught the swathe
Of your brown floppy hair;
Those thousand individual strands
Imprinted with you; the ones
I daily brushed. Your spirit
Loops itself around
This small three cornered object
And through the echo
Of your other-worldly silence,
Fastening me to you and him
—Like golden morning cobwebs
On the gaps between things.