Standing is too abrupt, too 
 rushed, to say goodbye.  
 Hurried words 
 escape like satchels from 
 the luggage claims.  Frozen
 words hover over parting gates 
 and lettered halls that smell 
 of seasoned fries and 
 sauerkraut.  Sitting: too sedate,
 ponderous as a houseboat.  We are 
 not a metal lamp, turned from 
 incandescent hot to cool with
 a tap.  We are not a 
 book slapped shut.  Prone. 
 Prone will say goodbye.  
 Prone as a floating leaf, marooned: 
 resting on a cypress root, set 
 to make its move.  
 Prone as a cat 
 stretched belly down on a 
 smooth brick floor, shaded 
 with rafters painted the color 
 of sky.  Eyes closed and tail 
 brushing the air: humming-
 birds zip in and out through 
 banister rails like days.  
 My lips: silenced.  Words 
 wait like Guatemalan jewelry in 
 a drawer.  Words (I try to say
 goodbye) that cannot reach 
 my mouth, fall wet with drops 
 of lilac jade and silver-plated 
 beads along my face, spilling 
 from a broken thread of wire.