Sense of You

The easy fragrance of you
clings to me.
To my sweater, my hair, my wrist.
Persistent like enigmatic memories,
like unsettling dreams pursuing the daylight.
Wanting not to be forgotten.

And with equated urgency I cling to it.
I go to stir the soup and panic.
The heavy richness of clam chowder overpowers
the delicate incense of you!  I turn from the stove
and walk back to the dark still chair,
and again you are on my sleeve.

It is as though you have left
your essence in your absence.
And mine with you quietly swept away,
holding tight your long wool coat,
your powdered throat, your gentle dark fingers.
I, too, want not to be forgotten.


25 November 1997

(back)