If I write this poem
I won't be looking at
your empty leather armchair
or your half-finished book
still sitting on the table
I won't be running across
your special raspberry tea
abandoned in the cupboard
or the moccasins I could
never get you to put away
I won't be breathing you in
from your jacket still
hanging by the door
or your pillowcase
still stubbornly unwashed
I won't be remembering
the relentless turn of
the cold black earth
or the moveless chill that
pervaded that day like
a premonition of my future.

04/23/2002

Posted on 04/23/2002
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