Did you stagger back to her
            or did you float
Did you wheel into that decade
                        once madly lost
I stepped back from summer
            having forgotten
            having left behind 
                        the entanglements

Now uneasy again
as if all the complications were
            just around the corner
                        and I wonder
if you would allow me to visit
so that I might
            look at you, asking
            Whose house
            Whose home

Was anything ours
Was night a long paralysis
            or was that a succession of days
Did you notice the ditches filling with fog
Or was that just rain
            softening to fog
Did a starless alphabet jolt from your gut
            as you explained
            yourself to yourself

Did you signal to me in dreams
your preparation
or was there no need, since the trance
            is vast and turns us
            blank without
            our even knowing

Turns a person into a few scattered years
A child to a toy

Did I not lead you back
            to living again
Or am I wrong again
                        as you say

Did you not count on me utterly
Have you felt the deadness or is that
            just a deadness
            in me
            now utterly mine

Are these dark blue rains
            sinking into yellow leaves
            made bright by
            passing cars—a cooler fog loaded
                        in us like bloodflow—

Where are your convictions?
What have you returned to?
I have no measure of you
            with whom I spent so many hours
I don’t even know how to tell
            one part of the story

I could say:  the part of you
            that was ghostly
            has grown

Or the wind this evening
            whistles into the nightweeds

November drops the changes
            upon us
The short days overcome us
A darkness laced between houses

            We become skeletal
            We reach for whatever
            feels like light  

And how could you ever
get what you want
when you would need to believe
            in something other than
the past—friends, mornings, walks,
            the spider-branchwork
            of cold trees—

But this was daylight
This was hope
We had begun again

The hours of more than three years
captive to a plot that still
                        makes no sense
as the sky sheeted white
            as if burning or lucent
above a street now impassable
and a regret so profound I cannot
            speak it—the way we say
            This my only life

Or the way we will not forget
what has happened to us.