I miss the way you walk across
a crowded room, as in my dreams
wearing that french blue silk dress I adore.
I miss the way that very dress
falls down, like a condemned man
as you shrug your shoulders and step out of its shell.
And I miss you on those thick, warm Southern nights.
I miss the way you were there for me
in my loneliness and sorrow
and the taut, familiar passions of our struggle
I miss the angles of your arm
you wrist, your palms, your fingers -
from the incest of their ink to their angels of decision.
And I miss the hungry promise of your touch.
I miss your poems and the creature
you became in the act of making them
and the borders they crossed
and how they made me want to follow
I miss you, you excruciating beauty
your intelligence, your elegance
and your half dreamed voice from older, kinder days.
Missing you !