I may miss nothing at all, just an ending—
Landing delicately on the edge of the next
Moment, like the sibilance of a crow’s wings
As it lights on the edge of my roof: heard
But seen only as a shadow on the concrete.
The dearness of the fragment of sun crawling
Across the rug this afternoon reminds
Me of you. It’s the color of apple cider,
Not to be missed. It has a presence, a hereness,
That makes me slip into dismay: So much fades
In that light. The silver evening, the open
Time. But I feel your fingers reaching
Absently for my knee, and I am there,
Where the contact is most intense.
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