Like a head, severed and featureless,
are those times too far from your scent.
Like limbs reattached, sutured to the blood,
is your silhouette in the doorway.
Like the dream after the waking,
is the smile of your skin.
Like the hours of insistence, drenched in purple,
is the declaration of your place.
Like a fish, drowning and drunk on its own world,
is the yes at the end of your fingers.
Like a poor man’s breakfast, waiting and ravished
is the moistness of your remembrance.
Like secrets in a barrel, floating high up to grasp,
is the welcome in your eyes.
Like turns in the park, the yielded path unknowing,
is the sound of our falling steps, together, sighing.
For Rae, my wife of nearly 27 years.