When I wake this morning

I am sorry I did not fall to the floor, 

did not sob, 

did not even 

flinch 

when I saw you flattened 

on that long table 

under the white flash bulb 

of morning. 

I am sorry you did not look human. 

You seemed a form shaped in wax. 

A sculpt without ribcage. 

I am sorry I gave you a quick 

once over and sat down, 

my hands not knowing where to pose, 

my eyes riveted by you, by knowing

you will not wake up,

would not open. 

I am sorry I did not know 

what you were thinking 

those last months, 

even those last years,

perhaps ever. 

I should have asked 

more questions. 

When I wake this morning, 

questions drift from my dream, 

golden autumn leaves, 

fabulating, metastasizing,

piling up just before

they vanish.