by R. S. Carlson
The air remembers how and when you came.
I cannot move a step beyond your eyes.
I taste the very letters of your name.
Telephones and letters keep their claim
on me. A sister calls. A neighbor dies.
The air remembers how and when you came.
The drive to work demands the careful, tame
routine. The scheduled duty multiplies.
I taste the very letters of your name.
Tomorrow builds and breaks. Praise and blame
gather at my ears to exercise.
The air remembers how and when you came.
Bills need checks. Children need the same
milk tomorrow that today supplies.
I taste the very letters of your name.
Surface tides conceal what currents frame
our deep answers to every moonrise.
The air remembers how and when you came.
I taste the very letters of your name.
R. S. Carlson
First published in The Hollins Critic 28.1 (February
1991):19.
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