And, of course,
it bothers me greatly that I can’t know
the quality of the light where you are.
How your each day pans out,
how the breeze lifts the dry leaves from the street
or how the street pulls away from the rain.
Last week I passed a tree
that was exactly you in tree form,
with a kind look and tiny sub-branches
like your delicate wrists.
Six years ago we were lying
in a dark front room on perpendicular sofas,
so hungover that our skin hurt to touch.
How did we always manage to be heartbroken at the same time?
I could chop, de-seed and roast
a butternut squash for dinner
in the time it took you to shower.
Steam curtained the windows, whiting out
the rain, which hit the house sideways.
One of us, though I forget who, said
do you think women are treated like bowls
waiting to be filled with soup?
And the other one said, of course.
Now the world is too big,
and it’s sinking and rising
and stretching out its back bones.
The rivers are too wild,
the mountains are so so old
and it’s all laid out arrogantly between us.
My friend, how long do you stand
staring at the socks in your drawer
lined up neat as buns in a bakery,
losing track of time and your place in the world,
in the (custardy light of a) morning?