the robe

winter is pressing in through the walls.
i can’t find any of my clothes,
but i found your robe today
in the pile of laundry still unsorted
eight months after you washed it.
i’d forgotten it. how could i have,
after the thousands of times
i held you through it?
i put it on;
why is it so much colder
from the other side?

where you are

you’re in my thoughts, my day,
in my rising and the empty half of the bed.
you’re in the silence on the phone,
in a smile i haven’t seen for two years.
you’re in a walk through the park,
feeding the geese stale bread.
you’re in an empty chair beside me
at a café, a movie, and a play.
you’re in friends we met together,
in the words you said to them,
at the checkout where they knew you by name
but never asked me where you went.
you’re on the street,
you’re on the train,
you’re at the hospital and the church.
you’re inescapable,
and standing still i can’t find you.

the only place you’re not
is in my arms.

— 6/12/1998