AFTERMATH by Robert Wood Lynn

It took years, what precise excavations 
of archeologists running low on funding—
but we did it, worked through all of my books, 
hundreds even. Me, dogearing the good 
poems with little folds in the top corners 
and you with large ones at the bottom. 
Sometimes, though half as often as I’d expect, 
we marked the same page, the edges bending 
toward each other like tennis players after 
a marathon match, their weary approach to shake 
hands at the net. Or like the world’s worst 
paper airplanes, folded for takeoff, 
to find you wherever you’ve gone.