I already miss this morning's
last embrace. I can't
remember the windscreen peeling
back like that, opened
arms of glass; only
the soft support of falling
through the gently slowing,
canvas afternoon.
From my back I see
a sky of sifting flour,
its rhythm slow as the trail
of your nightdress
brushing the carpet of that
forgotten hotel. At least
my eyes are open, I'd never
find you in the black;
when the ambulance
arrives it's night. Only
the last white shreds
are left, holding me
to the hem of your dress, before
the slick gloved hand
shuts you out forever.
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