Perhaps
the fragile, redolent aura
of the caftan you left behind ...
or the sketch I colored
with your skin, your hair
years before we met ...
or, again
walking the path
we ran together, winded, laughing,
our limbs melting effortlessly
into one harmonious rhythm,
your absence more tangible
than the presence of those who are near me ...
perhaps none of these things
or all of them and something more.
But like salty sands,
my days taste of return,
of the tide coming in.
Oakland
circa January-February 1975
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