Each evening, if you are out, I think:
I have your keys. I am ready
to walk out of here and over the road
down the brick path
to stand in your porchlight and
turn your key.
I could switch that lamp on,
trail my fingers over the dustless photos,
along the quilt that rests on your sofa’s arm.
My feet easing into the carpet’s warm pile
I would stand, as you do when
the streetlamp sheds its light on the pavement,
ready to draw the curtains,
looking back at my own dark house.
no true question can be answered - although
you want a word to be thrown to you like
the cord of a white rope, one end held in your hand,
one in hers, her answering weight
your counterbalance - you can’t fall -
what you get is this -
your voice shrieks and rails and when you falter
smoke surrounds you, a baffling fume -
you strive to hear which sounds will be shaped,
propelled on her breath, loosed to soar
and spin in the air like dandelion seeds,
drifting out of your reach.