Equally Close

You are gone.

I know it is so.

Your mailbox is yawning

bored from nothing to read

or maybe, as if the tube 

were a pandiculating dachshund,

the yawn is a calming reflex 

or the classic sign of appeasement,

a reaction quite defensible

when the hand thrust thus

so deep into one’s interior 

is foreign. Unfamiliar.

You are gone.

It seems to be so.

Your drive, for example, 

is as bereft of a car 

as the postbox is of mail.

Gone too is the amber aura

of the pair of pendants

that, when lit, shine

softly in shades of sepia

like sexy house bling

hanging from your ceiling.

And they make me remember

a night when smoky topaz dangled 

from the ears of a woman in love

whose fingers stroked the stem 

of a flute filled with champagne

or—have I misremembered?—was it 

her eyes that were filled with seduction?

Ah but yes, come to think of it,

it was both. (It is both.) 

I shake off the reverie

and understand 

that we have become a circle, so, 

away, maybe. Gone, never.

You are as close 

as this thought in my mind

this word at my fingertips

this curve of my mouth.

24 July 2021