Red Shoes in the Rain
you have been here three days.
just long enough to leave
yourself in every corner
of the house-leaning against
dusky pink walls with your arms
folded lightly across your chest
or behind your head, waiting for someone
as though you were still at the airport
or in some crowded railway station
in another city.
the coat in the closet holds your shape.
it could almost glide out the door
on its own, shrug its shoulders,
pull away from me wanting
to keep it here.
you have gone out-to be alone,
to concentrate on other things.
while I stare and stare at
slate-blue water and black trees
dancing three inches off the ground.
the house has never been so empty
your presence leaks out like oxygen
under the door, out the windows,
follows you down the street like a spy.
there is not enough time to say
all the things that crowd up, images
swelling and vanishing with each breath.