I found a white piece of paper
with your name on it
your old phone number written in the dark
loop of your handwriting.
I was standing outside a restaurant
watching this one cloud
float by like foam on a pint of beer
and thinking about how good
you’ve become at not being here anymore, how you
like a storm across the sky of everything.
—Matthew Dickman, opening lines to “Cloud” from The American Poetry Review (v.41 no. 4, July/August 2012)