on Mr. Hughes' death

And I would leave
rushed, maniacal

risk the pain
of catapulting
through window panes
and shards of glass
that give like water

fall ten stories
in an awkward dive,
to hit tarmac

so that she,
on opening that front door
would have said,
"I'm sorry. He can't see you right now"

and we would not have sat
in those pews

wondering how she could wear red
to her husband's funeral

because these are the
random thoughts that come to mind
when you don't want

to say goodbye.