four poems: memento

everything she did was done well
even her dreams were formulated
along great dotted lines of flight

i'd oft imagined that her mind
was like a city  just the kind
that Borges dreamt of dreaming

towards the end her love was like a flame
without heat but on that september day
she waved to me among the golden leaves

the evening sun lit up the building's eaves
and I went up the bridge to photograph her wave