Are there windmills to tilt where you are?
Here, it all feels like a model not quite to scale
this world, a negative space left by the outline of your absence.
This poem is too concrete to be a proper dedication:
it sinks like a murdered corpse in the river.
I would sink too, but it feels like bad form,
like a machine falling into disuse in the age of plastics.
You were never fond of my rages, the dragons taunting me
but you stood there nonetheless.
There is a heaviness in the shape left by your feet.
I am here and cannot follow.

– for Hermano Jones