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She left his raincoat on the coatrack
and his umbrella in the corner
by the front door. That way,
she can always think of him
as gone into sunlight.
The silence that follows the roar
of the vacuum cleaner almost seems
to pulse in time with my blood, tangible.
The last of the communal dust underneath
the pieces of furniture she took with her
has been sucked away from the voids
where chairs, sofa, dresser, the spare bed
no longer sit. The silence flows
into the absences where things
used to be and takes on their shapes;
it had taken on the shapes
of our selves long ago.
It is the broken, the fragmentary,
which endures: the fire stirred,
shattered lights ascend, return
at dawn as pinpoints trembling
in the dew-strung spider web,
and quiver now at noon
in our mingled sweat
across your breasts.
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