There in the corner
of my eye, you appear like footsteps
going downstairs – tread fading and pressed close, passing around
my shoulders, something I wear until I forget it is not actually my skin. As I do
as much with absence as you with presence, you
flesh out the unspoken, finishing sentences – some longer
than others. Cats and the wind
and the origin of words described in sound and abbreviation are brief and
to the point. I like most the waiting
for your call
after dark, standing
on your porch
knowing you will turn out
to be home, even as I imagine I am calling no one, or calling you as you
are leaving – I know silence is
much simpler. Looking across the street,
I trust the woman hanging her laundry out on the fire escape – her
red sweaters and wind filled blouses eventually
in the damp January air. You told me
you had been sleeping through, into.