but kept in the desk drawer,
proof I did once fit in the brown bend of his arm.
Proof too that he gave me
his dark-eyed smile, then nothing more.
He stands tall beside Family.
A drooping pear tree
in that rented English garden,
that corner of July sky. I am days old.
I am days old too, years later,
You look just like—
but nothing of the sort.
The alarm is set for seven-thirty,
the table set for three on cold formica grain.
Distance is relative, but I’m not designed
for walking on the wings of planes.