They don’t miss me.
But I miss them sometimes,
and they surface from dark

to wear the human clothing
of time again. I think most planned
on being sensibly dead,

stepping away, past. A sensible
approach to the impossible.

Though I host them. Dear Now-and-Then.
Our sweetness and our dead ends

continue in dreams. Just last night
I had to move away from them

again, in their dream of being

desperately close as birth seems.