The clock has circled again.
I flap around, a wounded bird.
Your absence is inescapable.
Here is your dinner, cold and congealed.
Here is your pillow, undented.
I listen for sirens and telephones.
I imagine lipstick and perfume.

The clock has circled again.
I doze fitfully on the sofa.
Your face is everywhere,
spiking my dreams with madness.
I start awake and wish I hadn't.
The darkness chills and chuckles.
The silence grates and grinds.

The clock has circled again.
An ashy pre-dawn light
is dusted across the room.
I slump unmoving in your chair,
time-killed and terrible,
wearing your absence like a shroud.
Someone is knocking on the door.

05/23/2002

Posted on 05/23/2002
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