Without Witness (excerpt)

Bright is the day on the other side of the shade. Uneasy

is my back against the pillow. Leftover tension
from the week of what didn’t or couldn’t. Last night
I visited a museum hung with photographs of not people

but the possessions they owned, writing desk

whittled low from use, buttons on the poet’s dress

as if sanded from fondling.

He will come down the hall shortly to hang his coat up

He moves plates around now in their cabinets, unable

to let them remain idle, draining water in repose.
I tense in anticipation while in fact he may lean over

and lightly press his lips to my neck.