I’m sure we’re taller in another dimension.

–Frank Ocean

The morning before your funeral, I shave
the skin of a Sungold kiwi into a Mason jar.

Like Zhuangzi, I remember you
as a lucid dream, one tidal wave

before the crash. Your dewy smile
and my blue raspberry slurpee. The church

choir and your brother’s charcoal shoes. The summer
we aired our grievances, I came out

parched and searching. Now it’s raining
and I’m sixteen and unlicensed. Every thunderstorm

folds me like a diary. I go over
-seas, buy books of pressed flowers just to tear

you out anyway. This is how it always goes:
my paranoia, your patchworks, these poems

drawn into your floral curtains. When the news
pooled into the suburbs, it flooded

your mother’s vegetable garden. There was silence,
but you were still in every deadbeat father, every stop

sign, every joyride in which the chorus
rewrote itself. Please follow the GPS. I don’t

envy you. I remember now, how you clasped the wheel
with both hands and ended with prayer–cross

-roads between the ocean and your song.