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.