Why does the moon always

come up behind my back?

Why am I never sure

that off in the distance a bell is ringing?

When I salt my food at dinner,

facing the television, alone,

the salt has lost its savor. That's how it is

in a world I never expected

to be in without you. Your black hair,

the reddest flower in your hair,

you sipping cold tea

from the spout of a teapot, and smiling

with pleasure,

have not

disappeared. What

is gone is

the sureness of one step in front

of the other across the wet plank that

bridges the stream between day and day.

I knew

the stars were in your fingers,

I knew a hundred names for death,

it was all a mystery we shared,

but I never guessed

that nothing would ever

be delicious again:

stepping, shivering, into a bath—

or listening to the wind at midnight—

or leaving the book on the shelf

knowing by heart your inscription on the faded flyleaf.