Sunday, November 22, 2009


You rise before dawn to begin leaving.
Sounds arrive from varied points of origin:
a rustle of shirts, the shuffle of papers.

All night long, I listened to jumbled words
slip from your dreams of renewal,
your endless leaving and arrival.

With one knee, you open the bedroom door,
a mug in each hand. In a moment, you’ll hold me
as close as if one of us had been lost.

I lift my coffee out of the way, trying not to spill.
You say, The phone is fully charged. Will you be alright?

The front door falls shut, key turning in the lock.
I wait for you to turn back
to retrieve the muffled answer, my lips at your ear
naming everything you missed.

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