This morning I can feel your corners at the tips of my fingers,
the thinness of your mouth filtering through my mouth, warm air
your back. I can feel
also
the sun in the window up telling
in each of the echoes left by the silence of midnight.
And your absence from the corridors, bedding, chairs ...
And I can name you, this morning,
absent and serene in the warm wind
September 1 September
foreign and distant
September 1 where
day-no truce fall under
your voice ...
(And what is, after ,
the syllables of your name air fading ...)
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