Your footsteps
Coming upon my door
The greatest of your secrets, revealed
Just before it’s opened.
My mouth, eclipsed
Then wholed by a bewailed breath
Knowing the sounds taken in
Are lived by them.
When I come up,
Against your forehead
Your militiant order
To be seen by your battered eye
Vague with knowness
Something like an august arm
Abasing closeness.
A year later,
There are empty sock drawers
In the walk-in,
There are antique bicycles
In the basement
That are getting older.
On the thought of living
I wonder,
How is it, that this room
Has become embalmed
With you absence.
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