. . . Nameless friend, you can never come back.
There’s no way to remember you–no stone, hymn,
or urn, just the mausoleum of this sad world
that is poorer now without your beak, claw,
and olive eye, your song from the butterfly bush . . .
–excerpt from “Demise” in Hanging Like Hope on the Equinox (virtual artists collective, Chicago 2013).