I think sometimes
I am afraid, walking out with you
Into the redwoods by the bay. Over
Cioppino in a fisherman’s café, we
Talk about the past, the time
You left me nothing but your rugs;
How I went off to that cabin
High in the Pacific cliffs—overlooking
Coves, a driftwood beach, sea otters.
Some mornings, over coffee, we sit
And watch the sun break between factory
Smokestacks. It is cold,
Only the birds and diesels are starting
To sound. When we are alone
In this equation of pleasure and light,
The day waking, I remember more
Plainly those nights you left a husband,
And I a son. Still, as the clouds
Search their aqua and gray
Skies, I want only to watch you leaning
Back in the cane chair, the Navaho
Blanket slipping, the red falls
Of your hair rocking as you keep time
To the machinery gears, buses
Braking to a slide, a shudder of trains.
If I remember you framed by an
Open window, considering the coleus
You’ve drawn; or, with your four or five
Beliefs, stubborn and angry, shoving
Me out the door of the Chevy; or, if some
Day or night
You take that suitcase packed under
The bed and leave once again, I will look
Back across this room, as I look now, to you
Holding a thin flame to the furnace,
The gasp of heat rising as you rise;
To these mornings, islands—
The balance of the promise with what lasts.