Whatever subtraction is performed on distance, the remainder cannot be minus,
So you are always not present, body or heart or both.
This has become not a variable lack or loss, but a state of being,
And I am not supposed to sentimentalize about it anymore.
What makes me write about this is
My pencils have just been sharpened by my wife
Who has sprawled supine on the sofa, watching soup operas half-mindedly
By her drowsy puppy for a quite boringly long elapse of time.
She called me to her and handed me this handful of uneven sticks,
Before they rose for a walk and I didn’t know who dragged whom out.
I am alone now, and I take each pencil to test out one line
Until eventually, or now, I use one pencil to strike off all I have scribbled down
And miscopy them over and smooth them out into one piece,
With the last line really far away from the first where I talk about distance and you.
May 9, 2008