There he was again, sitting up in a tree,
with his flaxen hair
and chuckle that turned into a howl
at the least thing. “Oh, how I miss you,”
I said, because I had nothing new in me.
He said, “Even though I am dead
I still can’t love you back.”
I said, “Who asked you.”
He laughed, and shifted to get
more comfortable on the branch—
it was the horse chestnut at the bottom of the drive—
tore his shirt, pink Oxford-cloth,
saw my expression of dismay, and wheezed
“Don’t do a Daisy-Gatsby on me with the shirts already,”
still laughing, then he tumbled
backwards into the leaves and was just plain gone.