in quiet nights along the curve of drafts
unseen, where ghosts I imagine carry out
their invisible lives, from that half-real
falling-asleep dream, I feel the whisper
your voice saying my name from far away —
sublingual? perhaps. and a brush of your lips
across my memory, my lips reflexive
kissing across time as though such might reach
you where you are . . . gone from my side, gone, gone
as gone gets and yet a hint of you always
brings unexpected smiles from strangest hints
and tricks of memory. who am I to call
out, call back? call your name to fickle winds?
sometimes my tongue, voice — gone as me from you . . .