I tell you it’s about your quest
and your creativity
and your tuneless songs in the kitchen,
and your happiness, runny,
sunlit, as egg yolk.
But that’s not all.
It’s actually this –
the warm tautsoft springy irrepressible
materiality of you,
you who give new life each day
to the weightless phantoms in your wardrobe,
you who leave behind rumpled sheets,
slippers, the lingering isotherm
of your presence on my bed –
I respect your spirit
but if you were here right now
I’d get on with what really
matters.