eulogy for the eternal.

This will be the last poem I ever write for you. 
Brooklyn made me dream of the orchards of my northern past
the one orange tree among a field of apples
its roots taken up with subway grating
A love affair of 50% carbon and alloy.
Standing on them you whispered
"It is finished" like
some Canadian Jesus
your breath moving across my face
(an eastern wind gone west then
east again)
and though
the sun rises over Golgotha, now
it
is.