The world could see his share of light was spent.
The hearts in his cafe were mostly warm,
but had to speak to make it evident

ROCKVILLE,    Md.,    Oct.    23-5:45    A.M.
A    thirteen-year-old    at    883    Post    Oak    Road
(who    wishes    to    remain    anonymous)    began

is borne aloft on such wings as
those of moths and aphids and fruit
bats in equatorial dusk;

"Nobody knows the system better than me."

We talk most days, but today he sounds far worse
than he’s sounded since they died.
I think he should call our old shrink. I say:
"Call me back after you call the shrink."
He hangs up, waits ten minutes, calls back.
"I did it," he lies, "but her service
says she’s away. What do I do?"

Someone posts a rant on the perils of passive voice.
Someone else replies, in defense of passive voice— 
snidely, shyly. What does it mean, body of the text? 

The whole man has no corners. He curves and curves.

        All down the coast 
were regiments of jellyfish (men-of-war, 
         they often congregate at docks); 

Two who had loved in each other’s eyes met strangeness.
Wonder at loss. Distance.

It was just a walk down the hall
—the teacher, my mother, and me, skipping—
to another world.

My body is so much bigger, and I am always wanting
to write a memoir. The bow at the end of class
is called a "reverence." Things keep waking me, haunting