After Calling Your Detective’s Discontinued Number

I want to say hold these harp strings steady atop the tallest summit.
For clouds, not knowing what happened is still heading home.

In her missing photo, the white girl wore an angora polka-dot sweater.
I can still hear the phone ringing on that day and my father

reaching for the cord. Georgia, I could tell you a delay. I could
tell you lightning needles its random, splits the heat in tall reeds bending

around the lake in late summer. I could tell you we were useless.
The car you were last seen stepping into drifted out an open road

both marked and known. Marigolds. Daffodils. Just sighs
meant for another song. Those crinkle rounds, plenty, fixed shrugs

collecting weeping wax at the white girl’s vigil, not yours. I want to say
balance your roaming on this scrap of drill bit. A pressure-strewn tool

for making a memory where there aren’t any. The finest memorial
instead of your family asking for help to afford one. A surface to deepen

and crater. A slate to shine all our failings. Go on. The park named
Wickersham near her home. Pink roses thorning up every perfect trellis,

bench, and canopy. An abundance of violet ribbons fixed to her door,
not yours. The Caltrans worker mouthed decomposed when his boot nudged

what was left. Georgia, I want to say harness your tide to the evening claiming
its catches. There’s a choir outside shaping its pitch among the darkening